Till Death Do Us Part
by Gentleman Crow
Summary: Upon his death, Francis is left at a crossroads. Too kind for hell, too promiscuous for heaven, there is but one way to decide his fate: a cosmic wager that he can win his love again and prove it true, even in the body of Arthur's much reviled ex.
1. Que Sera Sera

**Author's note:** And now for something completely different! Sorry to anyone who is waiting on tenterhooks for the newest chapter of La Vie en Rose, but I was attacked by a rabid flying mint plot bunny and this idea refused to leave me alone until I had begun it! I've always always wanted to try something like this, as this is my guilty pleasure. Oh yes, you know what I mean. YES. Supernatural romantic comedies. Yeeeees. You know, Just Like Heaven, Defending Your Life, Ghost Town, that kind of thing! I eat that shit up and I am unashamed to admit it. So here goes my version, Fruk style! I also wanted some lighter fare to work on on the side while I contended with the srs bsns and dramus that are sure to come with La Vie en Rose.

This is also a reupload after I reworked this a bit after some early reviews pointed out a big glaring oversight on my part, but I'm much happier with it now so I shall leave it this time X3

So sit back, relax, and enjoy!

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**Chapter 1:**

_Que Sera Sera_

Evening victoriously fell that day over the rooftops of the picturesque city of Applewood. The vanquished sun sank in the west and the giddy storm clouds that had been barely kept at bay by the warmth of its rays began to gather their strength from the approaching darkness and washed the horizon in swaths of ruddy light. The sky had looked simply dreadful all day, angry and stubborn like a caged beast, and with the obligatory retreat of the warm sun it finally succumbed to the ominous cloak of grey that swallowed the twilight. Street lamps flickered on in protest of the darkness one by one down the verdant streets lined with lush trees just beginning to flush and tinge with autumn gold, but a chill blew through the air and distant thunder sounded over the quaint metropolis nestled between verdant hills. If it portended a hint of fate swirling in the cold April air, no one seemed to notice, for it was the end of the day and not a single mind was attentive to anything but freedom.

Office lights blinked off in every window as businesses retired for the night, and the roads filled with bustling cars, bright headlamps, and the busy denizens of Applewood flooding out; all rushing to be anywhere on earth other than work until the next obnoxious jangle of the alarm sent them back to the grind. Caught up in the same routine day in and day out, few even paused in their races to get to wherever it was they wanted to be next. Even fewer stopped to consider the day that had just slipped by even while they survived it, lost in a careless puff of nothing but dust and hazy memory. The storm gathered, the earth spun obliviously on its axis as the heavens watched and time ticked on blindly past with its steady and deliberate pace, immutable and calculating despite the chorus of wishes of the mere mortals to the uncaring sky for it to speed up and slow down all at once.

All made their wish, but all knew on some level, depending upon their degree of intelligence, just how painfully insignificant they were, and that whatever pompous powers that were could not possibly be bothered to notice just one soul among the sea of them teeming through existence on Earth. However, one Francis Bonnefoy in particular, French born professional chef, businessman, and philanderer, proprietor and owner of the popular French bakery '_Le Lapin Doux_' could scarcely wait for time to get move on already at his whims to get to where he himself wanted to be next. The tall, handsome blonde stood lost in thought at the end of that long work day in the kitchen of his quaint corner establishment near the tree-lined downtown streets, staring wistfully out the window at the busy sidewalk and half listening for the sound of any of his various timers and ovens clanging to announce perfectly baked new sweets. The hands of the clock hung over the ovens slid torturously slowly across its cheery pink face, the rhythmic ticking mingling with the muted strains of French pop from the stereo drifting through the fragrant air. The last batch of croissants and baguettes for the day, with a few rounds of cookies for whimsy's sake, plumped and crisped to a golden brown on the racks while the mixer beside him hummed as it beat a sweet mixture of cream and color into the perfect icing.

Feliciano, his unofficial sous chef and star decorator of the bakery, stood behind him at the opposite counter, smiling vacantly as he finished the custom floral design on a birthday cake to be picked up that evening. Elizaveta, best shopkeep in a 100 mile radius, Francis was certain, was manning the counter with her usual precision, all smiles and warm greetings in her mint greet dress, hair kerchief with customary pink flower pin, and apron as she doled out colorful and beautiful pastries, his famous buttery croissants, and boxed up cakes for eager customers stopping by on their way home. Normally Matthew would be in the back crunching the numbers and balancing the books, but he had granted him a leave of absence a week prior. He had said something about his brother, the hospital, and an accident, Francis couldn't recall exactly, it was often difficult to remember what he said, but he had been more than willing to grant his beloved bookkeeper the time off he had tearfully requested. His devoted employees were always perfectly content to whittle away the last few open hours of business doing their jobs, and ordinarily he would be too, but all Francis could manage to do was watch the clock and periodically glance over at his maddeningly silent cell phone.

All day at work he had been distracted, anxious, and impatient for the usually pleasurable toil to end, for his routine would be something far out of the ordinary once the proverbial whistle blew and he was free. His mind had been preoccupied with visions of crystal emerald eyes beneath a fiendishly thick brow, a positively kissable pout, and the usual adorably unsexy sweater vests that he so loved hurling in an unceremonious heap to the floor. Two years of his life in fact had been consumed with very similar thoughts, though just as often they were more violent than tender, and all day he had been returning in loving nostalgia back that very object of his frustrations, day by day, minute by minute, every high and every low and every boring, monotonously gorgeous lull in between. Two years which just so happened to have begun on the very same night two years prior with a single disastrous date that had changed his life forever. The Eighth of April. It was that infuriating date he would celebrate the second anniversary of at precisely seven o'clock that evening, and two years of being passionately, hopelessly in love with the most bullheaded, arrogant, vexing nymph he had ever had the pleasure of hating. That night, he had reservations at the finest restaurant in town at an intimate table for two- window view, a crisply pressed snow white suit still in its dry cleaning bag waiting in the back of the bakery, and a date with Arthur Kirkland.

He also had the finest six-inch heart-shaped cake he had ever created in all of Arthur's favorite flavors and colors, complete of course with a tiny glass unicorn topper he had purchased from a frilly downtown boutique with a private smirk. Store bought gifts were very well and good, but nothing ever got the stammering, blushing, adorably cross reaction of being genuinely touched like a handcrafted gift he had spent all day making with only him in mind. Not that Francis ever thought about anyone or anything but Arthur, or so he liked to tell him just to get a rise out of the bristly Brit. The thought of his typical and all too predictable reaction brought a smile to his lips, and he finally glanced down to the icing in the mixer that had blended to a rich shade of red and the perfect creamy texture. Francis stopped the motor, filled a pastry bag with the sweet concoction, and began smugly piping the vicious red dragon coiled around the intricate fantasy cake that reminded him colorfully of his beloved who spent his days poring over brightly illustrated children's novels filled with the very creatures he crafted in frosting and editing them to perfection.

It had been a tumultuous two years; of that much Francis was certain. They had come away from their explosive first date absolutely reviling one another, after all, but after a chance run in at a coffee shop downtown which had begun with a quips and slights and ended in near fisticuffs, they had soon discovered they couldn't bear to do without one another. At the very least, neither could stand not getting the final word in. Another date to continue the fray had followed, and soon then another, and their rivalry turned out to be a thrilling game that neither minded losing, so long as the other looked so blissfully happy when they won. They were perfectly perfect in their functional dysfunction, and while the outside world looked on with raised eyebrows and disdainfully shaken heads, they thrived in their own world of lengthy wars ending with Arthur not speaking and Francis openly flirting with other men and women exchanged for periods of fiery passion unrivaled, they quite were certain, by any creature, mortal or otherwise, that had ever existed.

It was unlike any relationship Francis had ever experienced. Truthfully, it was the only relationship he had ever experienced. Up until he had met Arthur his life had been a scandalous reel of beautiful women, handsome men, exotic affairs and secret trysts balanced with finesse and lust. He often made a game out of how many lovers he could juggle at once until he invariably was caught, and other than the occasional slap or drink to the face, keyed car, or other defaced, demolished personal property he never spared his discarded lovers a second thought. It had only been Arthur; infuriating, smug, beautiful Arthur with his aloof mystery and the unique ability to fend off his beauty and charms and see right through him, who had ever kept him coming back for more. He had come back again and again until he found himself suddenly caring a great deal about seeing Arthur again.

Francis smiled to himself as he ran the pleasant and bitter memories through his head and decorated his cake. It enraged him and took his breath away all at once, and truly, he had never been happier. Francis had decided that long ago. No one had ever kept his emotions running so hot and his attentions so focused. A man who had spent his entire life flitting carelessly from one gorgeous thing to the next when he invariably grew weary of them, no one had expected he would finally settle down. Especially not with one that outwardly seemed to drive him utterly mad. Except he hadn't. Not really and truly anyway, and he preferred it that way. He and Arthur had been together for two years unofficially after their six month long courtship to get there, but had each been too stubborn to give up their apartments and simply move in with one another, despite the fact they both owned both keys. The subject of marriage had not once been brought up in polite conversation, not even in reference to people completely unrelated to any of their affairs. They shared nothing but their relationship and neither bothered to talk much about the past or the future. But it hardly mattered. They were perfect, and they had all the time in the world.

The moment Francis decided that was the moment his cell phone finally decided to ring, heralding the call with the bubbly strains of Doris Day reminding him that, "_Que Sera Sera_." It was a favorite song and saying of his, as flippant and carefree as he was, though Arthur always insisted it was merely an excuse to impose his foppish dramatics on the rest of the world. The screen also lit up with a rare treasure; a picture of a drunken Arthur laughing at something neither remembered until there were tears in his eyes. He took only a moment to smile and remember the momentous event. It was the only picture of Arthur he had allowed him to capture on his phone, being that he was so deliriously drunk, and he cherished it among his dearest possessions, but the longing to hear his voice after the endless day without him quickly won out over gazing at the tiny beautiful portrait. Francis put down his piping bag, wiped his hands on his pink apron, and promptly picked up the phone.

"_Bon soir, mon petit lapin_! I thought you would never call!" he crooned in his richly French accented English, twirling away from his cake to look longingly out the window, "I have counted the very HOURS until I could see you again, hear your voice, touch you… The furies themselves could not have conjured a worse torment than today!"

He could almost feel Arthur's wince on the other end, and he grinned at the agitated growl that preceded his annoyed voice.

"Damn it all, Francis. Must you always answer the phone with some sort of hysterical poetry?" the Brit snapped tersely.

"My dearest Arthur, would you have it any other way?" Francis purred in reply.

There was a moment of begrudging silence that was more of an answer than an actual answer would have been, and then Arthur cleared his throat before continuing.

"It's utterly ridiculous you twit, how difficult is hello?" Arthur went on, frustration clear in his voice.

"_Très difficile, certainement_. You should know this by now! How can I greet the love of my life with anything less than poetry?" Francis swooned, cradling the phone close to his ear.

"You can start by just bloody saying hello! Before you annoy me so much I forget why I even rung you!" came the reply in a voice increasing in volume and fury.

Francis merely giggled.

"Ahhh, well if you did not call to hear my poetic words of _l'amour_, then why did you bother?" he merrily inquired with a habitual flourish of a floury hand.

"I rang because I am not entirely confident that tonight's engagement hasn't fallen out of that rusty old sieve you call a head," Arthur informed him stonily.

The sheer absurdity of that statement nearly made Francis laugh out loud.

"REALLY, _mon cheri_?" he chortled, looking back to the nearly completed confection that had consumed his entire day sitting complacently on the counter, "Really and truly? You honestly think I would forget tonight after all the plans and all the fuss you have been making? Why, you must have reminded me three times before you left for work just this morning!"

He had spent the night in Arthur's apartment the night prior, so there had been ample opportunity between inappropriate morning affection and breakfast to do so.

"I know! But don't you dare tell me you don't have a nasty propensity for forgetting things, even after I've gone blue in the face reminding you!"

A teasing grin coiled Francis' lips, even though he knew Arthur could not see it.

"Mmm, I only forget something when it means nothing to me," he answered flippantly.

The sound of ire Arthur emitted on the other end was almost too hysterical for Francis to stifle any more laughter.

"You worthless bloody twat!" he spat, "Are you insinuating tonight means nothing to you?"

"Of course not! In fact, I spent all day making something special just for you, I shall have you know," Francis countered loftily.

The line went silent for several moments. So long, Francis pondered inquiring whether or not Arthur was still there, but his bleak, horrified voice sounded just in time to avoid embarrassment.

"You made something? At work you mean?" Arthur deadpanned.

"_Oui_! And quite possibly the most _magnifique_ something I have ever crea-"

"And you did it TODAY?"

"_Oui_. But I do not see how that would possibly-"

"You did forget, didn't you?"

Francis gasped, the sound and his face both so aghast Feliciano started with a squeak and ruined what was shaping up to be a flawless white frosting chrysanthemum on his cake.

"Forget? Forget? I could never forget! I was joking you humorless oaf!" he spluttered, stricken, "How could you even say such a horrible thing? I planned this weeks ago!"

"Oh please, Francis. Are you daft? You really expect me to believe that a cake or whatever you just pulled out of your arse today was planned beforehand?" Arthur snarled in retort.

"Of course it was! Would you not want a freshly baked culinary wonder rather than one that has been in my freezers for days? Not only that, but I had to design it myself, I went through hundreds of sketches, and then make certain I had every color of frosting to complete what I wanted to do, AND I shall have you know I actually got my favorite suit dry-cleaned just for this occasion and I-"

"FRANCIS," Arthur finally cut in with a groan, "Look I… I don't want to have a row with you over this right now. I really just wanted to make sure you remembered and that you'd be there on time for once tonight. It's important."

The tone in his voice was so transformed, so sincere and almost timid, Francis forgot all his annoyances for the moment and smiled tenderly as he leaned a hip against the counter and crossed his legs at the ankle, at ease.

"_Bien sûr_, Arthur. I promise you. I will be there at 7:00 sharp looking so devastatingly handsome you might just completely forget about a present at all," he purred.

"You mean it? Do you really mean that? Because I swear, Francis, if you are more than fifteen minutes late I'm leaving. I won't be left sitting there in my finest at a table alone with everyone staring at the poor chap whose date must have stood him up," Arthur growled.

Francis merely chuckled at the image of a brooding furious Arthur alone at a table, drumming his fingers and checking his watch while onlookers shook their head in pity.

"Well, look on the bright side. If they feel sorry enough for you they might just take care of the bill!" he joked.

"Don't you dare even joke about that!" Arthur snapped venomously, "I'm being serious!"

"So am I!" Francis countered with a grin, to which Arthur sighed heavily on the other end of the phone.

"I highly doubt you've ever been serious about a single thing in your entire life, Francis…" he lamented.

"Ah well… Take me or leave me as I am, _non_?" Francis said lightly, taking the liberty of swiping an elegant finger through some leftover icing in the mixer and suckling it rakishly.

"You sure you want to give me that ultimatum? You might not like the answer," Arthur quipped back, and Francis could sense the slight smirk he knew was on his lips.

"_Que sera sera, mon amour_. But at least if you leave me I shall have this glorious cake all to myself," he teased in return with a smack of his lips, "And I must say, it is DIVINE."

Much to his relief, Arthur actually chuckled.

"I should hope it is the most magnificent thing you have ever made then, but… You will bring it to me… At seven, at the restaurant? I mean, it is mine after all," he continued.

Francis smiled and closed his eyes, cradling the phone close as he relished the uncommon sweet and hopeful tone in Arthur's voice.

"_Oui_, of course I will. I had planned on closing up shop early anyway. I shall meet you there at seven o'clock precisely," he promised.

Arthur's relief and renewed cheer was palpable, even over the phone.

"Good, now quit jawing on with me and finish up whatever it is you do in your silly little shop," he ordered, clearly in better spirits.

"I will I will! And I shall count the minutes now until I can leave and gaze into those limpid pools of green once again, never to return from the depths of-"

"Goodbye, Francis," Arthur cut in amusedly.

Francis ceased his effortless stream of prose with a soft laugh, cerulean eyes glittering as he looked out of the window into the brightly lit street.

"_Au revoir_, Arthur," he breathed in reply, letting his next words chime effortlessly into the still air, "_Je t'aime_."

There was a long, poignant pause, during which Francis knew Arthur was flushing, struggling with the words, and grappling for a reply, even though it was always the same thing.

"I don't speak frog, moron. Figure it out."

And then the line went dead with a neat click, as it always did after the retort Arthur always gave.

Francis sighed in the ensuing quiet and tipped his head back, pressing the phone against his chest wistfully. No matter how many times he expressed words of love and adoration, Arthur's reply was always the same, or some nasty variation thereof depending on his mood. He had come to accept it was the best he could do, not being one adept at expressing his feelings, and it was good enough. Their phone conversations were always some sort of joust of rhetoric and spite, but it always left him wanting to shove Arthur forcibly to any suitable flat surface to kiss his venomous words away and reduce them to naught but wanton moans. A wicked grin coiled the Frenchman's lips thinking about what might come later that scandalous evening, and he quickly set his phone back down, twirling merrily around to finish the cake for the occasion. Upon opening his eyes again for the task, however he was startled to find Feliciano's chestnut brown eyes gazing up at him pitifully, filled to the brim with tears and all too close to his. With a yelp he jerked back into the counter, laughing nervously and holding an arm up in defense.

"Feliciano!" he cried in surprise, "You look so, um… Close. What ever is the matter?"

Feliciano sniffed and clasped his hands desperately, the expression on his face almost as if Francis had just informed him a beloved pet had passed.

"I-Is everything okay? He sounded really, really mad this time!" he sobbed, "You're not getting a divorce are you?"

Composing himself with a smirk, Francis laughed merrily and turned back to his cake to finish the job with a flip of his hand.

"You have to be married to do get a divorce, you know," he informed his fellow baker as he picked his pastry bag back up, "Which Arthur and I are not, thank God."

Not comforted in the least, Feliciano only wailed louder and wrung his hands.

"B-But you're still not going to break up are you?" he persisted, sniffling and hiccupping.

Francis opened his mouth to answer, but a smarmy, smug female voice with its familiar Hungarian accent chimed in for him unannounced and uninvited from the front of the store.

"No way, they totally get off on fighting like that. You can tell. They're made for one another," Elizaveta snickered, suddenly appearing in the kitchen doorway and leaning against it.

She looked so dainty and innocent in her mint green dress, apron, and kerchief and flower in her long brown hair, Francis often forgot the catty comments that could so effortlessly lash from her sharp tongue. He didn't allow it to interrupt his cake decorating, however, and kept his focus on finishing his dragon.

"And here I thought… What was it you said when I first brought my Arthur around, _mon cheri_? You gave us a month? Tops?" Francis retorted warmly.

The young woman laughed and gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Well, it's only going to be a month longer for you two, if that even, if you don't finish that cake on time, sounds like," she quipped in amusement.

"Ah, _oui_…" Francis lamented, frowning slightly, "And perhaps pick up a little something extra on the way to dinner. _Mon petit lapin_ seems dissatisfied with my current token of affection."

His two underlings both frowned, cast each other a mournful glance, and then regarded Francis with scathing pity.

"Damn, I'm sorry, Francis. You worked really hard on that for him," Elizaveta said with a wince, irony and sarcasm now gone from her words.

"Yeah, yeah! You put your heart into it! Once he sees it he'll have to know how much time and effort it took and how you were thinking about him the whooole time and how good it is and fresh and beautiful and delicious and made with love and-"

Feliciano rambled on, while Francis, meanwhile, seemed completely unfazed and at ease with the situation, and shrugged it off with a smile.

"Oh don't act as if this is the end of the world you two. Arthur is always on about something or another. I will just go out after we close up and pick him up this beautiful little pocket watch he has been eyeing for ages at the jewelers down the street!" he decided cheerily, "And if that still does not please him, well… There is always later tonight to atone for my sins…"

The Frenchman trailed off with a suggestive snicker, leaving Elizaveta and Feliciano to glance at one another again, wondering just how on earth Francis and Arthur were celebrating two years together the way they went on. Luckily for the both of them, the chime of the bell on the door to the shop tinkled whimsically and nullified the need for any reply at all. Feliciano went happily back to his cake and Elizaveta dusted off her apron as she trotted out to greet the customer. Unfortunately for her, the patrons boisterously entering just so happened to be a tragically familiar white-haired German and his ever present, ever smiling Spanish companion.

"Good evening and welcome to-" Elizaveta began, only to grimace in recognition and cross her arms over her chest, "Great. You two. Just great."

Francis' frustratingly ever-present partners in crime, Gilbert and Antonio, entered in a kinetic, laughing, rowdy whirlwind dressed in their glitzy, scandalous, clubbing finest and descended upon the bakery and a hapless Elizaveta. They slathered themselves over the counter as if they owned the joint, and as usual, Gilbert felt more than free to slide his hips onto it, and right over the Napoleons innocently sitting on their doilies in the case at that. He was all smiles and cheer, as usual, and as per his usual began his interaction the same way he always did.

"Evenin' sugartits! Is Francis around?" Gilbert queried noisily in his thick German accent, leveling his crimson gaze predatorily at Elizaveta, "We were gonna ask him to come party after work but-! I guess you'll do if he's otherwise occupied!"

He cackled and reached out to stroke her cheek, or hair, or worse, Elizaveta couldn't tell and cared very little, only to have his hand violently whacked aside.

"You know that sign by the door?" Elizaveta growled, lower lid twitching, "The one that says 'We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone'? Yeah, I think I'll have to invoke that right about now. So kindly piss off and have a nice niiiight…"

She finished with an eerily pleasant singsong, belying the belligerent fires in her green eyes. Nothing the duo hadn't fended off before, and Antonio gracefully countered with his usual jocular carefree demeanor.

"**Don't be like that, **_**Señorita**_**!" he chirped with an undauntedly radiant smile, "We would love it if you came along! I'm sure Francis would, too! We're going to his favorite club!"**

**Elizaveta wondered why she even bothered trying to tell Francis' precious goons to leave with a heavy sigh, but made a last effort at it anyway.**

"Well," she snapped, "Too bad for you. It just so happens that Francis is-"

"Horribly, unavoidably, irrevocably detained tonight!" his rich, silky voice suddenly sounded, penetrating enmity between his friends and his employees.

And with his proclamation Francis himself materialized from the double kitchen doors in the back with a flamboyant flourish, laughing as he breezed over to embrace his closest companions.

"You should have told me you were stopping by! I could have saved you the trouble of coming to pick up no one," he chuckled, patting Gilbert on the back fondly.

The German squeezed his friend a little harder than truly necessary, and barked his grating, booming laugh altogether too close to his ear as they pulled away.

"Don't fuckin' tell me you're going out with the old ball and chain AGAIN…" he snorted derisively, "Didn't you already go out like, a week ago or some shit?"

Francis rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

"Yes, I'm going out with Arthur," he reproached as if speaking to a petulant child, "You should have known that. It's our anniversary tonight! I told you about it!"

Gilbert only blinked cluelessly, cast Antonio an inquisitive glance, got an equally flummoxed shrug in reply, and then turned back to Francis with an incredulous smirk.

"Anniversary? Don't you gotta be married to have-" he began.

"No," Francis interrupted tersely, "You do not. People who are dating have anniversaries as well!"

A smug, knowing glint flashed through the German's crimson eyes.

"_Ja_, uhuh, sure. But then what happens when you DO get married, huh? It's a different date, so then the first one don't mean shit anymore! So really, tonight's just another night, right? Fuck Sir tea-and-crumpets-and-sweater vests-my-sense-of-humor-died-back-in-the-dark-ages! Come out and LIVE a little again! Find a sweet piece of ass or pussy or whatever you want that'll treat you RIGHT tonight! Like you used to! Remember how it used to be? You're so goddamn pretty you could get ANY sexy thing to bend down and suck you off and give you a foot massage while they did it!" Gilbert goaded.

"Arthur could come, too, if you wanted!" Antonio offered happily, earning a caustic glare from his undermined companion.

"That is… Unusually logical persuasion out of you for once, Gilbert," Francis mused, thumbing his beard sardonically, "And a temping offer. _Truly_. However, that life is behind me. _Mon petit lapin_ and I have had tonight planned for a long time and we both are going to make it perfect. So, you two have fun. I have got to finish the cake I made in time, and go out and get an extra gift or I may be joining you after all."

Francis and Antonio laughed, but Gilbert remained deeply unsatisfied with his friend's reply.

"_Verflucht noch mal_, Francis!" he scoffed, "When are you going to get over that asshole? All he does is make you miserable anyway! Look, maybe this is a sign! You sure as shit ain't finishing a cake on time, and whatever you buy he's gonna hate like he always does. Tonight is gonna be doomed, so just come out with your friends! Remember how much FUN we used to have? Staying out all night, drinking, buying out all the biggest condoms in the store, pissing off the side of the freeway? Picking up whoever we wanted? Making West pay our bail in the morning? Like that night we drove up into the hills and broke into that cabin with those chicks- or dudes, or whatever they hell they were from that freaky costume bar downtown and-"

"No, Gilbert. NO ONE remembers that night," Francis cut in, finally soliciting at least a short bark of a laugh from the white-haired German.

Antonio's eyes shifted away, actually looking a little scandalized. Elizaveta seemed to perk up, wondering if any more of the story would come to light.

While Francis was flattered his best friends were clearly missing him and wanting him around, he had already solidly made up his mind that he was going to enjoy the evening with his beloved. Arthur did make him miserable, some of the time, but the other half of the time he made him blissfully happy. Gilbert in particular had never understood it, longing for the days where all three of them enjoyed bachelorhood full of all manner of debauchery and the drunken haze of club going and waking up in a different bed every morning. Then Antonio had been introduced to Feliciano's short-tempered brother Lovino and fallen head over heels, and all too shortly afterward Francis had met Arthur, and neither felt much like picking up inebriated club rats any longer. Only Gilbert had been left single and resentful of the frequently bitter and angry significant others that stole his best friends from him so often. Francis smiled understandingly at him, even after his outburst, and reached out to put his hands on his shoulders.

"_Désolé, mon ami_," he continued softly, "I cannot tonight, but this weekend I will free up an evening to come spend just with the two of you having some fun. No Arthur, no Lovino. Just us. Whether Arthur likes it or not. Alright?"

That promise seemed to bring a smile back to Gilbert's face, though it remained a cautious one.

"Really? Serious? You promise? Cross your heart and hope I kill you myself? I don't want any last minute, 'oh wait, Arthur has to come or I won't get laid for a month,' pussy-whipped bullshit," he warned with a crooked grin.

"_Non_, _non_," Francis laughed, shaking his head, "I promise you, my dearest Gilbert, that this weekend we will have the time of our lives!"

The Frenchman slid his elegant hands up and cupped his best friend's cheeks, leaning forward and kissing his forehead affectionately.

"Now, go and have a glass of fine cabernet in my honor."

Gilbert smirked and swatted Francis' hands playfully away.

"I am way too awesome to be seen drinking any of your faggy wines," he scoffed.

"A petite sirah, then," Francis offered with a wry grin that quickly turned serious, "And do you have your inhaler? If you leave without it again…"

Gilbert twitched visibly in annoyance, but on this, Francis would remain firm. He had suffered from asthma his entire life, and on more than one occasion Francis and Antonio had the misfortune to witness how quickly it could fell the usually boisterous and irascible white-haired young man. Since the first time he had seen it, Francis always took it upon himself to be the unofficial inhaler-bearer, lest he be forced to resort to phoning an ambulance to a busy and hot nightclub, for which his friend was not liable to forgive the embarrassment.

"I don't need the _verdammt_-"

"I've got it! Don't worry about a thing, Francis!" Antonio piped up, pulling the offending blue device out of his pocket and showing it proudly.

Gilbert glared at the thing as if his mere glower could melt it and rid him of it for good and Francis smiled in relief.

"_Bon_, then you have my blessing to go. So go already!" he said, waving his hands at the door, "I need to finish my cake and get on the road!"

He shooed his friends away from his counter lovingly, looking forward to having an evening of fun with them the way he used to and then still going home to bed with Arthur. If he wasn't banished to the couch for being too drunk or smelling like some strange perfume, that is. No matter what he said or did the Brit had remained fiercely suspicious and jealous for the duration of their romance and was all too quick to remind him of his past and the reputation that continued to linger about him. Gilbert headed straight for the door, plowing into it and waiting impatiently, but Antonio turned over his shoulder and cast Francis one last brilliant smile.

"I hope your evening with Arthur goes well, too!" he called, raising a hand in farewell.

"Are you kidding?" he chortled, putting his hands on his hips, "Nothing at all could spoil it! God himself has smiled upon this intimate, romantic evening with the man I love!"

And rebelliously punctuating his very thought, a clap of thunder sounded outside, the flash of lightning lit up the room, and the rain finally began to fall in thick sheets. Everyone present in the bakery grimaced, cast a wary look at Francis, and then uncomfortably went back to their business. Francis stubbornly kept the grin on his face, his hand waving idly, wondering just what else could go wrong to make him late, ruin the date and subject him to Arthur's wrath.

"_Scheiße_!" Gilbert swore furiously from the door and turning his crimson gaze on the rain, "I knew it was gonna rain! Didn't I tell you it was fuckin' going to rain? Come on, Antonio, let's get the hell outta here and to the club before YOU look too shitty to get in!"

Gilbert's mirthful cackle echoed through the bakery, followed by the slam of the door and the frantic jangle of the usually cheery little bell.

"_Tschüss_, Francis!" he called.

"_Adios_!" Antonio echoed, and both of them vanished out the door and sprinted down the street through the rain to the BMW Gilbert always pilfered from his younger brother.

"_Adieu, mes amis_!" Francis piped after them, watching their silhouettes rush past the windows and out of sight a moment with a fond smile.

Then he promptly turned, clapped his hands and ordered everyone back to work, double time, so he could close his beloved _Lapin Doux_ and make his seven o'clock deadline. Elizaveta was more than happy to go back to serving the last few guests and closing up the register, while Feliciano's earlier fears had to be assuaged and his tears dried yet again before he could focus on finishing his own project. Yet somehow in the midst of it all, Francis managed to put the finishing touches on his cake, write, 'Happy Anniversary,' in flawless looping cursive, and in English for Arthur's sensibilities, and get the kitchen cleaned to his satisfaction for the next day. Leaving his employees to clean the counters, draw the curtains, cash out and lock up, Francis finally retreated to the restroom in the back.

There, he could freshen up as quickly as he dared, take the ribbon out of his hair and brush out his wavy golden locks until they shone and fell in gleaming tendrils around his shoulders. He changed into his finest and favorite white suit; the one that was tailored to perfection and gave his statuesque body every flawless angle and masculine definition that never failed to turn every head in the room and coax something enchanting back to his apartment for the night. He coupled it with a sinful red silk shirt underneath and a matching midnight tie, and finished off his ensemble with a subtle, but intoxicating spritz of his favorite cologne. It just so happened to be his favorite because it was Arthur's favorite on him, but Arthur was unaware he knew and that made it all the more special when his lover would bury his face into his neck just to breathe him in.

A grin played over his handsome face as he finished primping himself, and he blew himself a kiss with a playful wink before dashing out into the kitchen for his coat and his cake. Much to his pleasant surprise, he found Feliciano had already wrapped the fantasy confection in an ornate box with a curled ribbon and Elizaveta was waiting by the back door with his coat over her arm. They both cast fondly supportive smiles at him, and he went to embrace them both and kiss each of their cheeks one last time.

"_Merci, merci_," he breathed to the duo with each kiss, slipping into his coat and taking his cake carefully, "You two are the finest employees and friends anyone could ever ask for."

Elizaveta smirked and slipped a perfect red rose into his lapel for a final touch, patting it down and dusting him off gently.

"_Igen_, we know, you're damn lucky to have us," she replied, "We'll finish things up and we'll see you tomorrow, bright and early. But… No sordid tales of tonight, please. At least… Not in front of Feli."

Francis swore he saw her grin turn lascivious for just a fraction of a second, while Feliciano looked oblivious as usual and simply continued to smile radiantly.

"But I want to hear all about _fratellone_ Francis' date!" he sang, flailing his arms eagerly, "I want to know if it was the best date they ever had and if Arthur was nice and he smiled like Francis likes him to and if the food was good and if he liked his present and if maybe they'll get married now!"

Francis chuckled as he picked up his car keys from their usual hook by the door.

"Keep dreaming, _cheri_, and we shall see tomorrow!" he announced as he readied himself to dash out into the rain and bidding the final farewell to his friends, "_Adieu_! And say hello to Roderich and Ludwig for me too!"

"_Ciao_, Francis!"

"_Viszlát_!" came the simultaneous pleasantries in return.

The last thing either Elizaveta or Feliciano saw of their friend was his amorous, mischievous grin and his elegant fingers as he blew them both a kiss and breezed gracefully out the door. He made a point to run as fast as he could through the pelting rain to his sleek red sports car parked outside, and not just because he was getting wet already. Arthur still needed and deserved that pocket watch he had resolved to get him. Ordinarily he would have just forgotten about it and insisted his planned cake was all the gift he needed and much more romantic than anything else he could have just carelessly purchased, but Arthur had sounded so sincere and so shyly eager to be with him that night it would be well worth being late and enduring the punishment to surprise him with an unexpected gift. So he strapped the cake into the back securely, hurled himself into the driver's seat and peeled out of the back parking lot into the busy, shining wet streets.

When Francis entered his car, the time on the dash read exactly 6:16 pm; just enough time he reasoned to make a quick purchase of the watch, and if he sped just a little, make it to the restaurant in time to be calling Arthur and pulling into a parking space while making his apologies and excuses on the phone. Hopefully then his transgressions would all be forgiven when his lover opened the much coveted watch his stinginess and necessity had not permitted him to purchase, enjoyed a fabulous meal and then finished it off with his heavenly cake. Arthur would be so touched, perhaps he would not even be able to find the nasty words to sling at him, and instead fall into his arms, adoration in his eyes, and be utterly, devotedly his for the entire night. Francis was reasonably certain his plan would pan out, reasonably, but just in case he drove as rapidly as traffic would allow down Applewood's Main Street with his windshield wipers swaying frantically against the steady downpour, grinding his teeth and knuckles white on the wheel.

The nimble little red sports car swerved into the parking lot of the jeweler's with an uncharacteristic screech of rubber on wet asphalt and rammed itself forcibly into the closest spot to the door. Francis leapt out and made the mad dash to the entrance with his coat over his head, only to discover with a wrenched expression on his face that the store had closed not even half an hour prior at six. Dumbfounded, the blonde stood there in the rain, blue eyes blazing with hellfire until his senses returned and so too did his determination to let nothing else stand in his way. There was a flicker of movement near the back of the shop, clearly the last vestiges of the staff making their way home for the night and Francis banged on the glass door until he finally caught the attention of the delicate, sweet looking salesgirl still in her prim suit dress and pumps.

She flushed and hurried to the front of the store, opened the door just a crack to apologize and tell the tall, handsome Frenchman they were closed, but a rakish smile and a low, sultry greeting in purred French and a plea for her help coaxed her to invite the strange customer in. She easily fell prey to his wiles and his charms, and was quick under his charismatic flirtation to reopen her register and ring up the expensive pocket watch in the window, all while giggling and gift-wrapping it especially for him with all the finest paper and ribbon in the store, free of charge. Francis handed over his credit card as she shyly rung him up, and thanked her with a wink. Out of habit and afterthought, he left her his cell number on the receipt, just in case Arthur decided to make a pointedly Arthur scene about things and cancel the date, leaving her standing breathless, heart racing, watching as the beautiful, mysterious spirit of a man walked briskly out into the rain and into the shadows.

Francis cradled his precious package in his arms and under his jacket, feeling smug and victorious as he leapt back into his car and started the engine. The watch was a beautiful piece of engineering worthy of a maritime captain of old, an artifact that could have come straight from the ships Arthur so lovingly kept in his apartment in antique bottles. He'd loved it from afar and denied himself the pleasure of owning it so long, to finally have it in his hand would make the evening the romantic, momentous occasion Francis knew his beloved wanted it to be. He had always been tragically and mercilessly romantic, and would be damned if he didn't give everything in his soul for the sake of love. It was all perfect at last; until of course the dashboard came back to life and revealed he had spent well over half an hour finagling his present out of a closed shop and a naïve young girl. A stream of French oaths poured from his lips as he stashed the gift on the passenger seat and tore out of the driveway back into the crowded streets.

The restaurant where he was to be meeting Arthur that evening was a fancy affair on a hill overlooking the entire verdant valley in which Applewood was nestled. Unfortunately for him it was also a good distance away and across an often gridlocked and busy stretch of highway that was nasty and infuriating even when the weather was kind. Nevertheless, he forged on, but the trip from the city proper took much longer than expected and by the time Francis even waded through the mire of street traffic to the winding, scenic road up toward the hills it was already five minutes past seven. The elegant French obscenities continued with even more venom, flung unheard along with uncouth, frustrated hand gestures and sharp honks at drivers being too cautious, too slow, and altogether rude.

Francis bobbed and weaved his way in and around cars, gripping the steering wheel and scowling into the growing storm. The clouds roiled and teemed overhead, thunder boomed as the rain fell harder, and time ticked mercilessly on, minute after cruel, smug minute. The trees whipped past as he sped, heedless of the speed limit signs, a red streak followed by a flume of blinding water through the dark evening down the last stretch of road. The radio hummed some muffled, meaningless love song too low to hear over the pounding rain and the whine of the windshield wipers. Street lamps flashed in eerily ephemeral ghosts of colorless light over his face, sky blue eyes narrowed and focused intently on the road ahead. The familiar cheery jangle of a text message arriving on his phone sounded from his pocket, and Francis swore again as he wrenched the device out and hurled it unceremoniously it on the seat beside him. He didn't need to look to know whom it was from, not did he wish to inflict the frustration of reading the predictably incendiary words upon himself.

"_Merde_," he spat to himself, "Just WAIT two seconds, Arthur you impatient, stubborn, _bourrique_. I'm coming!"

The first text was soon followed by a second a few minutes later, then a third. The fourth time the same monotonous tone sounded Francis growled in frustration and almost gave in to the temptation to send something snide in return, but a quick glance at the clock reminded him it was only 7:10 and he still had five minutes before Arthur said he was going to give up on him. There was no need to exacerbate the situation with a response that would only incite his lover further. It was only when his ring tone blared to life and his beloved song became an infuriating cacophony piercing his ears with its intrusive, needy caterwauling that he turned his head away from the road and reached out for it. His fingers just brushed the sleek black phone to pick it up, but his vision flooded with sudden blood red from the corners and blinded him in a haze. He snapped his head back forward, eyes wide, just in time to see the brake lights of the car in front of him blazing far too close.

The little red sports car lurched and screeched as he too slammed on the breaks with a yelp, grunting as his seat belt locked and his tires skidded on the soaked highway. At the last moment he swerved to avoid plowing headlong into the back of the other vehicle into the second lane, kicking up a dramatic spray of water and getting a chorus of horns in reply. He still made a point to tell the other driver just exactly what he thought of their driving in a colorful mix of enraged French and English as he passed, despite the fact they were in separate cars, and stomped forcefully on the accelerator. The engine roared to life, hurtling the car headlong into clear and open road before him, hissing and grumbling and leaving all the other drivers behind in his wake. Francis was finally able to heave a sigh of relief and sink into his seat, goal in sight and only a few more miles away. The plan of calling as he was pulling into a spot remained intact, with the additional possible tongue lashing, but he would nevertheless end up dancing to a string quartet under a crystal chandelier, drinking French wine, looking into Arthur's beguiling emerald gaze, holding his beloved in his arms and making love to him all night long.

His peace would have been complete had his cell phone not rung a second time, and then, Francis was chagrined to discover, from the dark depths of the floor beneath the passenger seat where it had tumbled. That was the final knell. The last bastion of hope for any glimmer of happiness left in an otherwise disastrous chain of fate. Arthur never tolerated two missed calls, ever, and he knew full well if he ignored him again even after all of his ire, his agony and effort, the evening would be utterly spoiled.

"_Mon petit lapin_… I adore you, but you really are a piece of work," he muttered, and leaned down below the dash to grope for his phone.

The cold wind of fate that had skirted about the entire day, moved its pawns and cast its shadow over the wretched night blew once more.

Down the opposite stretch of road a trailer truck bounced and skidded precariously down the steep grade. The tires fought against the heavy weight and the slick, treacherous asphalt, twisting and hissing, the sopping chains rattling ominously under the carriage. The brakes screeched in protest every time pressure was applied to their frayed, blistered nerves, and their dying cries rang shrilly through the turbulent air. The only sound that managed to ring clear and true above the desperate grind of the pads against the wheels, the driving rain, and the percussion of thunder was the sound of the cables as they snapped.

Without them, the crippled truck spun wildly out of control. The cab swayed and swerved, horn blaring to warn the hapless drivers ahead and trailer fishtailing behind it. The rain soaked road offered no reprieve, no kindness, and its decent into ruin was unmercifully swift. It frantically dodged what cars it could, but momentum seized it and the destroyed machinery could be controlled no longer. The cab plowed over the median in the center of the wooded highway, scarring the tender grass, and skidded on only one set of wheels into the opposite side, sparks flying against the flashing sky.

Francis heard the ghastly moan of the dying vehicle from rooting around for his elusive cell in the dark and he sat bolt upright back into his seat to gaze into a wave of blinding headlights, twisting metal and burning hellfire. He frantically slammed the steering wheel to the side, but his tires scraped and clung to nothing, hydroplaning into weightless, helpless terror as the semi plowed solidly into the side of his car and flung it effortlessly through the guardrail and off the side of the road. It toppled and flipped down the torturously long and shallow embankment and Francis heard the hideous sound of glass shattering all around him with a sickening chorus of crunching metal, before the airbag deployed with a loud concussion of air and everything went black. Heedless of its unconscious driver, the red sports car tumbled through the mud and met a violent end to its trek when it crashed abruptly into a tree and stopped on its roof, sagging defeatedly into the mire.

Somewhere in the blackness, Francis knew neither how much later, nor where he had ended up, but he heard and felt, somehow, the sound of his tires spinning uselessly in the air. It was followed by the steady, mournful drum roll of the rain on the ground just outside, and the frenetic jerking and scraping of his demolished windshield wipers still twitching feebly against the remnants of glass. He then became painfully aware of the blood rushing to his head, his arms sprawled awkwardly against the crushed roof below him, and the intensely uncomfortable tightness of his seatbelt keeping him strapped firmly into his seat suspended upside down. He screwed his eyes shut tighter as his senses returned sharply to him, alerting him to a blinding pain somewhere in his lower extremities and something scalding hot and wet dripping up his neck and trickling through his golden curls.

Glazed cerulean eyes finally fluttered open and the ruins of his car spun and shifted dizzyingly before them. The battered Frenchman groaned softly, but forced himself to move as much as he could in his demolished car, ensuring each and every part of his body still responded and functioned. Every single inch of him seared with unimaginable pain, so he was reasonably certain everything was at the very least intact despite the blood. Slowly, the memory of what had happened percolated into Francis' frazzled mind and he writhed in protest against the seatbelt and the buckled chassis trapping him into place. The first thing he thought of then was Arthur. Arthur who would be sitting alone at their romantic table, fuming as he checked his watch obsessively and glared at his phone. He would wait for his call that would never come, hating him so intensely in that moment it would surely destroy him later that night to know why he had not kept his appointment. Moving, even despite the powerful thoughts of his beautiful, fiery lover, proved impossible, and no matter how hard Francis clawed and struggled, hands groping for the seatbelt catch or something, anything at all to free himself, it was all in vain.

Above the wreckage in the roadside ravine, the felled semi still dangled precariously over the edge, its massive bulk suspended only by a few flimsy shreds of the metal guardrail. The creaks and groans of failing infrastructure pierced the already tempestuous night, and the truck tipped ominously lower over the edge. If Francis heard it, it did not register in his desperation to free himself. The only thing that did, the only thing that could, was the sound of Doris Day's clarion voice as it filled the cabin with song and faint light. His cell phone lay on what was once the roof, a trifling few feet away, and Arthur's smiling, beautiful face illuminated the cracked screen. Francis gazed at it, his heart wrenching inside his chest, and reached a trembling bloodied hand feebly out toward it with a whisper only he would hear.

"Arthur…"

His fingers could not reach, and high above him, the last vestiges of rail crumbled and failed. The broken truck plummeted down the ravine with a banshee wail that pierced the storm and sounded clear to the heavens. It thundered down the side of the hill and barreled through the mud, carving a black, murky path of destruction as it headed straight for the wreckage. In the end, the headlights illuminated the cabin and filled it with a bright and blinding light that filled Francis' vision until it was all he could see. His last thought was of was Arthur's smiling face, the sound of his laughter, and the touch of his hands and his lips on his as the distant strains of a much beloved song reverberated mournfully into the final impact.

"_Whatever will be, will be… The future's not ours to see. Que sera, sera…_"

* * *

Fate rears its ugly head, and Francis is left to contend with the unknown of the afterlife, which may not be all clouds and halos and pearly gates as he might expect… What is waiting for him on the other side? Well certainly not a chorus of angels and harps. Sounds a little more like something he's used to; the halcyon sound of bickering…

Stay tuned!


	2. All Frogs Go To Heaven

**Author's Note**: Well hullo thar! And welcome at last to a new chapter! Ahaha I actually could have posted this like a week ago, but there is SO MUCH MORE TO IT D8 I was gonna make it one chapter but it got out of hand so now it's 2 :T Good news being I have a good half of chapter 3 already so the next update should be sooner rather than later! I'm a pathetically slow writer sometimes XT… That being said! This is also not meant to comment on any kind of religious views or nothin' like that. This is just me having fun with the idea of the afterlife and at poor Francis' expense, so enjoy it along with me X3

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

_All Frogs Go To Heaven_

He recalled a sensation of floating. A placid, gentle drift like riding the waves against the pebbled shores of Nice in the summer, or of a perfectly drawn bath filled to the rim and mounded with glittering suds. The sensation of warm light all around him kissed his skin with its gently curious rays as a calm, perfumed breeze tossed the soft golden tendrils of his locks around his face. It was like the dreamy haze between being asleep and waking, of lying in bed on a Saturday morning knowing he had no reason to get up and nowhere to be with one arm draped loosely around Arthur's waist. He could almost feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, smell the sex and sleep tousled blonde hair against his nose and lips, and hear the ticking of his lover's favorite antique clock keeping a slow and steady rhythm to let him have the blissful illusion of keeping that moment just a bit longer than time truly allowed.

He oft wondered in that warm and hazy dream state if his slumbering lover would awaken and feel like pancakes, or possibly an omelet, or, on the rare occasion when he was in the mood and they happened to have fresh, ripe strawberries and cream, Belgian waffles. Nothing was better than sneaking out of bed just before Arthur would awaken to fill the house with the scent of his expert cooking just for him. That would either entice his green-eyed beloved out of bed to shyly come to the kitchen to watch, or if he was not drawn out of his dreams by the sumptuous aroma he would have the extraordinary pleasure to wake him with a kiss and a tray of breakfast in bed embellished with a single red rose.

Only something was not quite right.

There was no Arthur by his side, fidgeting adorably and mumbling in his sleep. There was no reassuringly wise tick of the clock on his dresser or the familiar aroma of old books that permeated his entire apartment. There seemed to be no semblance of Arthur's expensive and deliciously plush bed or his fine linen sheets draped scandalously over his naked body. Most notably, there had been no nagging for him to get his lazy ass out of bed and to work in only the most elegant, British of ways that always served as his alarm the nights he spent at his lover's. All he could feel was a peaceful, warm sort of numbness as he drifted on in that strange and wonderful place where his mind flitted pleasantly through random thoughts and quickly forgot anything was amiss at all.

The vaguely disturbing feeling like he was late to something crossed his mind once, but he could not remember for the life of him what it might be. He scraped at the corners of his psyche to recall the date, the last time he had seen on the clock, or even the day of the week, but all answers seemed to elude his mind, no matter how hard he tried to focus it on something tangible. The notes of a song tickled teasingly at his ears, but just as he thought he recognized the tune it vanished into a ghost of a melody, too faint to distinguish or even to be certain it was there. His entire being felt everywhere and nowhere all at once, material and incorporeal, as if his mind had been severed from his body and he was trapped in his own skull. Though the notion to try to move never seemed to percolate through his sporadic thoughts. Everything was so blissfully calm and peaceful, he couldn't fathom why anyone would ever dream of being the one audacious drop of rain to ripple the glassy surface of an untouched pond.

That dubious honor was taken from him by an all too familiar sound rousing him from that eternal peace as a proverbial boulder hurled straight into the pond of his dreams; the sound of bickering. At first, it was faint and muffled, like Arthur's downstairs neighbors arguing over something trivial again, but as the exchange of annoyed quips and slander went on it grew louder and clearer until it seemed the combatants were locked in verbal mortal combat right at his bedside.

"…ainly not agree to something so depraved, what kind of an argument is that? If you're going to attempt to best me at least make sense! Not that someone like you is even capable of it…" a smooth, haughty voice barked in a tone barely controlled.

"Aww, do you have to put it that way? That makes it sound like you don't like me!" a second more amused, but still mocking voice replied.

"Of course I don't like you! Whatever gave you the ridiculous notion that I did? I'm trying to sort out the details of this mess so we can both come to an agreement and just move on with our business and go home!"

"Go home?" the second voice queried, "But going home means back to work!"

"Of course it does, you nitwit! I'm behind enough as it is! I can't afford the time to stand out here haggling with you when you clearly have jurisdiction in this matter!"

"Me? Jurisdiction? Love, if I had jurisdiction here don't you think I would have been on top of things? And you know me! I am ALWAYS… On top of things."

A purr and a peal of lascivious, pleasant laughter echoed in his ears, followed by a garbled cry of revulsion, and only then, did Francis stir from his repose.

"Ugh! You disgusting, perverse simpleton! That is not even close to what I meant! Why must you always turn the most innocent of comments into something filthy?"

"Because it's fun?"

"Because you're an imbecile."

"At least I don't have a hot poker rammed three feet up my-"

"Do not EVEN go there. I came here to meet with you in a purely professional manner and I expect you to do the same! We have important business to attend to, so can we please keep the vulgarities to a minimum? If we can just go through our lists and compare one last time we can get this over with and-"

"Hey, I got an idea! How about we just flip a coin for it? Or arm wrestle! Or better yet, a drinking contest! Oh WAIT, silly me! I forgot! That's FORBIDDEN for you, isn't it!"

More laughter rang out from whomever was enjoying teasing their far too uptight companion, followed by a loud thud and a cry of pain. It interrupted the squabbling only but briefly and it continued unabated at an even higher volume than before. Francis could hear every caustic word between them, but he had not the slightest clue who they were, or even what they were arguing about. Why he should be so intimately privy to a tiff between two voices he didn't recognize was also quite the troublesome notion, and as his mind began to clear thanks to something to focus on he finally gathered enough wit to think to open his eyes.

Pale lashes fluttered against his cheeks and his lids parted, his deep cerulean eyes flickering with a faint glimmer as they adjusted to sudden pure light that flooded them. His world spun and blurred for several moments, but once it cleared Francis found himself gazing straight upward into the deepest of blue skies curtained with wispy clouds. A deep frown marred his face. He hadn't the slightest clue when he had fallen asleep, let alone why it seemed he had fallen asleep outside; in the middle of the day and in a place he was still unsure of no less. More disturbing that that, he discovered, was he was lying very neatly on his back, something he rarely did as he was prone to splaying across the entire bed in his sleep, and his hands were clasped peacefully over his chest like a corpse in final repose in a casket. That disturbing oddity he hurriedly righted with an unnerved gasp, pulling his hands away and using them to instead push himself up from the curiously plush surface upon which he lay.

He propped himself cautiously on his hip, letting his surroundings orient themselves around him, but when he finally got a clear look he froze mid-effort to get up. Stretching out into infinity, mirrored against the boundless blue, a vast expanse of gently drifting, misty clouds lay as far as Francis could see. They rose in tall pillars and dipped into gentle valleys, crafting a dream landscape out of nothing but fog and golden light. Francis stared, jaw going slack, eyes wide, scarcely believing his eyes and convincing himself he had to still be dreaming. It became even easier to believe in awakening in a dream as he happened to spot the origins of the mysterious voices as well, just moments after the shock of seeing his exotic locale.

Several yards away from him stood two figures shrouded in light and shadow. Indistinct at first, as Francis peered closer he could see one was a stern looking man with pure blue eyes, long blond hair slicked back over his head severely, and dressed in golden armor with a billowing green cloak. His handsome face was pinched in anger, and as he argued Francis saw his fingers brush the hilt of his sword, just slightly, almost as if to soothe it from flying from the scabbard and burying itself in the throat of the other figure on its own. Beside him a second man stood, his hands on his hips and a casual grin on his darkly tanned face framed in unruly brown curls. He too was dressed in armor, but his was a darkly burnished silver cuirass depicting a ferocious battle with a blood red cloak draped rakishly around his shoulders.

The sight in and of itself wouldn't have been too out of the ordinary, had Francis not noted after absolutely everything else the fact that the blonde figure was crowned with a halo of light and had a pair of magnificent white wings folded regally against his back. His companion boasted a set of wicked black horns atop his head, and seemed to radiate a darkly sinful aura beside the golden glow lingering around his adversary. Francis continued to stare, absolutely certain that someone had slipped something into his drink at a bar, or he had suffered a stroke, an aneurysm, or Arthur had finally gone and done it and really cracked him over the head with something as he was always threatening to.

Meanwhile, he was free to stare all he liked and go utterly unnoticed as the heated battle raged on.

"Do you even have your list?" the angelic blonde, and owner of the sterner, harsher voice snapped with his arms across his chest, "Did you even bother to come prepared at all?"

The horned brunette grinned and flourished a hand.

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. But I know you hate waiting and pussyfooting around, so why don't we make this easy and you just take him!" he replied flippantly.

The winged man rubbed his temples exasperatedly.

"For the last time, I told you. The council already met on this matter and made their final decision, I CAN'T take him," he groaned, "They really only sent me at all to inform you that you have to take responsibility for him."

"Yeah? Funny, because I was told the same thing! We can't take him either, so he's your problem now, the end, case closed, _finito_!" the darker man gleefully informed him.

"You really and honestly expect me to take charge of someone like… Like… Like THAT? I could fill an entire library with the annals of his vice! The sheer number of sexual partners _alone_ is enough to-"

"Certainly enough to make me think he's probably a swell guy and would get along fine with us, we just sort of get a little nauseated when we look at the… Other parts of his life…" he cut the other off yet again, sticking out his tongue in disgust, "All that lovey dovey, sweet and caring crap kinda... You know, makes us all gag. He would have been such a badass if he'd just stuck with that party animal, devil may care- pardon the expression, life he had!"

"Precisely the reason we have no place for him! A heart of gold does little good if you only act on it occasionally!" the golden figure roared.

"Oh come on. Occasionally? Give me a break. That's not exactly something you can turn on and off… You have a good soul, it's a good soul, period!"

"Really? Then how else was he able to act like a complete… A total… Charlatan and fiend half the time? The fact that he can be both at once only speaks to his qualities more fitting to YOU!"

"You wish! You're only afraid if you took him he'd hit on you and you'd ENJOY it. Admit it!"

"I will do no such thing!"

"He's JUST your type too, look!" the demon proclaimed, gesturing straight toward a paralyzed Francis, "He's manly, but so TERRIBLY pretty to boot and so-"

They both turned to look, and both stopped abruptly and went silent to see the very subject of their argument conscious again, his face twisted in an expression of sheer, unadulterated horror somewhere between the first time Gilbert had filched some of his brother's porn videos to share, and the first time he had tasted Arthur's cooking. An awkward beat of silence passed between all three, and the angel and the demon promptly turned on one another again.

"Great, just great! Now look what you did! He's awake!" the angel cried indignantly.

"Me? ME? It was you who started with the yelling! I was cool as a cucumber about the whole thing from the start!" the demon countered.

"Even if that was halfway true, you were the one deliberately provoking me and making things difficult!" the other hissed as he pointed an accusing finger.

"Deliberately provoking? DELIBERATELY provoking?" the demon repeated mockingly, "I'm just being me! If you can't take the heat then get out of the kitchen, as they say!"

He laughed, hands smugly on his hips. The angel looked away and rubbed his temples in disgust, and Francis took the opportunity to clear his throat and raise a finger to interject as he shifted slowly to his knees.

"Uh, pardon but-"

"Don't resort to trite old sayings to excuse yourself, take responsibility for your own actions for once, you insufferable cur," the angel spat before he could finish his sentence.

Francis waited for him to finish patiently, and once his venom had been properly unleashed he began again, a little louder.

"I realize you are… Quite busy, but I am quite certain this is some bizarre dream and I would really like to wake up n-"

"You know, you might get a little further in a good fight if you didn't use those boring, ancient insults like that. Just ONCE call me something really nasty! Son of a bitch, asshole, motherfucker, you know, one of the good ones! Get creative!"

Francis was interrupted once again before he could even be heard, grimacing and dropping his hand as the fight went on as if he weren't even there.

"Oh, I _bet_ you'd like that. You'd LOVE to make me stoop to your level, wouldn't you? Get me to be as vulgar, uncouth, drunk, and promiscuous as you are! Is that the only way your kind can feel GOOD about themselves? Hmmm? Spreading your lies and your filth and-"

"_EXCUSEZ-MOI, messieurs_!" Francis bellowed through the din, twitching slightly.

The angel and demon both stopped at last, but remained in their battle stances and shifted their eyes warily toward the mere mortal that dared to interrupt. Francis had not thought past what he would do should he actually succeed in gaining their attention, and froze. He spluttered a few moments awkwardly, smiling, gesturing with his hands, and spouting nonsensical babble before regained his composure.

"I, er, uh. I wasn't sure, but…" he managed at last between nervous laughter, "Er… _Désolé_. This might sound a bit silly, since you are but figments of my imagination, but… I'm not quite certain where I am or what is going on, and I would rather like to return to reality now, if you don't mind."

He finished in a wavering singsong, smiling cautiously. Surely, if he could remember that he was in the midst of a dream, even though it was the most shockingly vivid dream he could ever recall, if he could convince his subconscious he should be waking up he would. At the very least, he reasoned, he could control what went on and move to someplace a bit more pleasant, Arthur in the angel costume perhaps, though a much more scandalous one. However the scene did not change, did not fade, and he did not wake. All that came from his declaration was an uncomfortable glance between his dream mates and a deep sigh before they turned back to him.

"I do apologize," the angel stated carefully, "You were not supposed to see any of this, but… I suppose since we have lingered so long and human consciousness and will is a more powerful thing than we tend to remember, you were able to awaken."

"That, and our little lovers' quarrel WAS pretty loud, dear," the demon added with a smirk.

The angel whirled on him with a scathing glare, grinding his teeth, and Francis stared blankly at the both of them.

"Uh, _oui_…" he dubiously agreed, "And I shall be happy to let you get back to it. Do not allow my foolishness to deter you from important matters! You know, you don't even have to bother! Maybe if I just pinch myself it will be enough…"

Francis waved the duo off casually and proceeded to pinch himself on either forearm with his brows knitted in concentration and tongue between his teeth. A pained look crossed the faces of the immortals watching, and the angel cleared his throat.

"Look, I don't think you understand what's going on here. You see, this is not a dream. Well, not technically anyway. Well, I suppose it is something not unlike a dream, being that it is a place between places. It is mandated by will also. Oh, and kind of a gateway between two different states of being just like sleeping and waking I suppose you could say! It exists purely because of human consciousness and imagination as well… You know now that I think about it this place can be considered a dream of sorts, but one you're conscious in and so therefore-"

"I should really lay off the Descartes before bed, I suppose," Francis cut in, a hint of irritation in his voice, "Now even my subconscious is attempting to make sense of things that make no sense."

"More like lay off the Freud if you ask me," the demon added wryly, earning yet another glare before the angel went on.

"N-No. I'm afraid it's… Slightly more complicated than that. You're very much here, we're both very real, and so is this place. It's hard to explain, but you see- Um. How can I put this delicately… Perhaps if I start from the very beginning it will be easier for you to-"

"You're dead, dude," the demon bluntly interrupted with a cheery grin.

The angel slapped a palm into his forehead, and reached out without even needing to look to backhand his incorrigible counterpart across his smug face. The demon keeled backward with a yelp and hit the cloudy ground with a puff of glittering mist and a string of colorful oaths. Francis, on the other hand, knelt still as a statue, eyes wide, jaw hanging slack and seeing and hearing nothing but pure, unmitigated horror, never mind the sudden brawl that erupted between the immortals in front of him. There was just no way. Just that morning he had awoken in Arthur's bed thanks to a neat roll of his socks hurled in his face, had coffee and a quick breakfast of eggs since they had overslept, and parted with a kiss and an indulgent grope of his lover's all too delectable behind as they both left for work. He had just been happy, if anxious, whistling and singing with Feliciano as he baked and primped and prepared for his date. He had just seen his best friends, promised them a weekend of debauchery and merriment even, and flirted on the sly with a sexy girl before driving off to his anniversary date with the man he loved. There was just no way in heaven or hell he could possibly be dead.

"No…" Francis finally breathed, forcing a crooked half smile, though his lips quivered slightly, "No way… There's no way. I can't be dead! It can't be! I was just… Things were-! This has got to be some sick joke or something! H-Hah. G-Gil slipping something in my drink like the ass he is. Of course he might do that. Or a-a prank! Sure! Lovino can be a nasty little prick. Or it could be a bad trip, a stroke, a brain tumor, SOMETHING!"

The angel and demon heard his protests in between slightly crazed giggles, and managed to stop their altercation, glancing over in unison from their tangled heap on the ground with limbs akimbo and hands around each other's throats. They relinquished and cleared them, dusted their armor and composed themselves before standing back up, chagrined and ashamed.

"Sorry, man, but it's true. You kicked the bucket. Bought the farm, bit the big one, joined the choir invisible! You are stone cold dead as a doornail for sure!" the demon informed him with just a tad too much enthusiasm for Francis' sensibilities.

Luckily, the angel shoved him pointedly aside and stepped forward to take charge, regret on his handsome, stoic face.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized, wincing, "As rudely as he put it, what he says is true. I'm afraid you have indeed… Passed away."

Francis let that lovely tidbit of information percolate into his brain over the course of several uncomfortable seconds of silence. Somehow hearing in sugarcoated kindness didn't make it seem any more true and his expression twisted from horror to indignant disbelief.

"_Non_," he adamantly insisted, reverting unconsciously to his mother tongue, "_Non, ce n'est pas vrai_… I-I simply refuse to believe this! If I were dead, I think I would know it!"

He balled his fists as he yelled, absolutely certain the circus of ridiculousness had to cease at any moment. The demon crossed his arms over his chest, resigned, and smirked at his companion who looked increasingly despondent and annoyed at the same time.

"Please, Francis. I know this is a lot to take in at once, but just listen. The human perception of the afterlife is cursory guesswork at best, but you did get some things right! Isn't this just what you imagined it might be like?" he intoned encouragingly.

"Yeah, just think about it! Look around you, think about how you got here!" the demon piped with a crooked grin, pointing up and down Francis' form, "Hell, take a look at yourself for one sec! Would you ever be caught DEAD wearing something that hideous? HAH! Dead! Get it?"

He broke off into hysterical laughter at the irony of his words, which Francis fiercely ignored. For the first time, he did look down at his own body and was shocked to discover the painful truth behind the behorned man's words. Instead of his glorious, sharp suit he remembered changing into after work he was clad in a disgustingly chaste, pure white robe that covered his entire body to the ankles and wrists and was as formless and shapeless as a repurposed potato sack. It was about as flattering as one as well, and did absolutely nothing for his fabulously masculine figure he so loved to flaunt. Horrified, he grabbed the silky, ethereal material and stretched it out and away from his body in his trembling fingers. The garment undeniably clung to his body, and he squeaked in a manner most undignified as he frantically patted himself down as if clad in the unwanted shroud of a corpse that wasn't even his.

"This isn't-! I would NEVER-! But! But I was just-!" he started to protest, looking frantically back up at the immortals, but halted his own words at the expression in pale blue eyes and the gentle shake of a blonde head.

"You were just leaving to get to the restaurant…" the angel began solemnly, his words reverberating with the image of a memory in Francis' mind, "You were running late, and it was raining. You stopped to buy Arthur that pocket watch. You wanted him to have it so badly, to see him smile, but it made you even later and you were in such a panic to be on time, to please him and make it all right, you never even saw the truck until it was too late. Don't you remember? The highway, the semi… The accident?"

As he spoke, the words dappled across his mind's eye like a hideous, bloody paintbrush casting the last moments of his life in gruesome color. He remembered buying the watch and flirting with the cute young salesgirl in her prim pink skirt and bun. He remembered rushing out into the rain, swearing, the incessant ringing of his cell phone, and the bright lights and the blare of horns. He remembered pain, vertigo, and blood, but most of all, he remembered his thoughts turning to Arthur to make him the last image and joy to hang on to as he faced his own mortality. Then, he remembered nothing, nothing but white light, drifting, and a peace he had been suspicious of all along.

"_Mon dieu…_" the Frenchman whispered, dawn of realization flickering in his cerulean eyes.

A sigh of relief left the winged spirit's lips as a calm smile crossed them. He took a step forward and reached out a kind and tender hand to help the mortal up from the ground to guide him at last.

"So now you understand. Now you see. It's all becoming clear to you and we can finally-"

Before he could complete even half his calming thought, Francis leapt from the ground and launched himself at him, full body tackling him and grabbing him desperately by the collar of his armor.

"YOU'VE GOT TO SEND ME BACK! ARTHUR IS GOING TO MURDER ME!" he screeched.

The angel reeled back, startled and stunned as the Frenchman yowled and shook him while the demon erupted into more laughter behind them.

"I think you're safe there, pal, seeing as you're already dead!" he commented mirthfully.

"SEND ME BACK! DO IT! _Vite, vite_! You said yourself this was a place BETWEEN life and death right? So there is still time! They've got to be down there with the Jaws of Life and the paddles and CPR and whatever the hell else they use! So hurry up and kick me out of here! Bring me back! I don't have time to go to the hospital!" Francis ranted, eyes wild and gesturing frantically.

"I-I-! I'm afraid I cannot do th-!" the angel yelped, only to be screamed over again.

"What do you mean you can't? Don't give me that! It's bad enough I'm late and Arthur's already pissed, but an accident and missing the date completely to DIE? He'll never forgive me! Send me back NOW! I have got to get to that restaurant! I don't care what's broken or what's bleeding or whatever! I am making that date come hell or high water!" Francis raged, jabbing a finger rapidly into the angel's chestplate.

He flinched and recoiled with each blow, holding his hands up in defeat.

"Francis! Francis! Mr. Bonnefoy, PLEASE! You don't understand!" he pleaded.

"I understand PLENTY!" he retorted furiously, "I know that I'm hanging here in the balance, wasting precious seconds being DEAD and killing brain cells when I should be waking up and getting a police escort to my anniversary dinner!"

"Dude, chill out. That dinner is long gone, no way you're making it anyway!" the demon conveniently decided to interject, once his rival had borne the brunt of the mortal soul's fury.

As he predicted, Francis ceased his assault, but retained his hold on the angel as he peered suspiciously over his shoulder.

"_Quoi_?" he queried acerbically.

"You're way past your expiration date, is what we're trying to say," came the cryptic response, which was less of an answer than Francis had hoped.

"So what? I'm already at the hospital? In surgery? Life support? Dead on arrival?"

"DOA? Heh, you wish! Far from it! You were pronounced dead on the scene! You got the SLOW ambulance ride back to the hospital, my friend," snorted the demon, making little effort to corral his delight.

And finally, everything began to sink in. Francis released the angel, who took his hands gently and looked pleadingly into his eyes. He said something, presumably comforting, but all Francis saw was his lips moving just in the corner of his vision.

"Dead… At the scene…? So, then I… I'm already…?" he barely rambled.

"That's what we've been trying to tell you… You're not here because you're on the brink or in danger of moving on. It has been… Quite some time. Um. How should I say this? Uh… You've… Been deceased for about two months, human time, actually," the angel sheepishly expounded.

A beat of deafening silence passed between all three, during which the gamut of emotions Francis even knew he was capable of feeling slammed through his entire being.

"T-T-Two… Two… Months… Two… TWO? TWO MONTHS? TWO?" he stammered.

Francis staggered backward, unable to even begin to comprehend having shifted off the mortal coil for a full two months and being none the wiser. His hands remained bent into trembling claws, his eyes glazed over, and he finally exploded with an enraged scream of fury that crumbed into a nonsensical violent tirade in all French. He turned away from the immortal spirits standing before him, clawing at his hair and robes, kicking up mist and beating the clouds in a vain attempt at venting his volatile feelings physically. Behind him, both angel and demon sighed and regarded one another with at least a small measure of relief that at least they were all on the same page.

"Knew he wouldn't take that one well," remarked the demon.

"I should say not," the angel replied, crossing his arms over his chest and readjusting his wings, "No one would. But this is our fault and we at least owe him the decency of an explanation of what's been going on and why he's here."

"True that," the demon agreed, shifting his eyes toward Francis, grimacing at his tantrum and taking a slow, measured step backward, "Uh, but you do it."

"Finally you start making some sense."

Francis was still thrashing, jabbering in French and railing against the very force of fate itself as the angel approached him with his hands out in a comforting gesture.

"Francis, please. If you will calm down for just a moment we can explain. There is meaning to all of this if you will only listen," he implored.

Somehow, even through his rage and frustration and sorrow, Francis heard his words clarion and clear above everything else. He turned, still seething, but placid enough to compose himself at the angel's bidding and smooth out his wavy blonde locks.

"You COULD have simply explained from the sta- _Non, non_," he hissed, stopping himself and smoothing back his hair, "_Contrôle-toi_, Francis. This is doing little good…"

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, lifted his head and did his best to smile at the duo who had managed to shatter just about every belief he had about existence in the span of only a few minutes.

"_Pardonnez-moi, messieurs_. I lost my head a moment. I am sure you… quite understand," he bit out, still looking rattled, eyes dark.

The angel nodded solemnly and pressed his hands together.

"I do, I very much do, Francis. And I apologize this all had to come to light this way, but allow me to explain. Please. I'll tell you everything, I promise," he assured him.

Francis nodded numbly and clenched his fists at his sides, preparing himself to hear all he needed to hear, as much as he knew it would tear him apart. He had yet to hear about the world he had left behind. He knew nothing of his friends, his family, or even Arthur, and he could only hope that his imagination was a much darker and bleak place than the reality they remained in.

* * *

_Aaaaand SCENE! I'm sorry I suck :T But now that Francis has that little freak out out of the way now he can focus! … Maybe. And hopefully you can guess who the angel and demon are supposed to be :T I left them nameless on purpose. More mysterious and otherworldly that way ooooooo. … … What do they have in store for poor Francis now? Well nothing he's going to appreciate much, that's for sure. Find out next time!_


	3. A Holy Roller in a High Stakes Game

**Author's Note: ** And here we are again with a new chapter! This ended up taking longer than I thought cause I got a little cold, bug, THING that sorta made me drip and curl in a blankie for a week. Not prime writing time when you have phlegm in your brain, no sir! That and I am super super sorry but I ended up cutting the chapters again :T So Francis gets one more chapter to endure the afterlife. He can take it I'm sure! Hopefully I can focus long enough to get out the next chapter quickly now. I suffer from crippling fic ADD someone get me some Ritalin or something I swear :| ANYHOO! Thank you SO SO MUCH to everyone who's reviewed and watched and faved and AMG you all make me so happy, and continue to enjoy my strange little fic! :3

Cheers!

-Crow

* * *

**Chapter 3**

_A Holy Roller in a High Stakes Game_

The angel nodded solemnly as he spoke again, "Good… Good, then I'll begin with the beginning, which was, as you now know, your end. And hopefully, if I show you, it will help you understand what has happened to you."

He reached out a hand and made a deft swirl in the air which coaxed the clouds beneath it to rise. The mist surrounded them, flushed with color, and shimmered and rippled as the sky darkened to a stormy evening black. Beneath their feet the town of Applewood materialized into view, drenched in rain and teeming with life just as it was the last time he saw it. Francis could see the main street where his beloved _Lapin Doux_ slept, closed for the night, as well as the jewelers he had visited. He could see the quieter residential districts, glowing with the warm lights of home, then the highway leading up to the hills; the very same highway he had been driving on. Just as he recognized it, he witnessed the truck spin wildly out of control, jump the divide and completely decimate his car. The sight was gruesome, to say the least, and Francis winced each time his hapless little vehicle bounced, broke, and crunched down the hill until it was finally crushed by the falling truck. From his aerial view, it was painfully apparent just how catastrophic the accident had been, not to mention how asinine his driving had been. It was no wonder he had been killed instantly, Francis realized, and shuddered.

"You were in fact killed in that accident, and it has been quite some time. Your family and friends, your Arthur, they have long said their goodbyes and laid you to rest," the angel went on, moving his hand again to change the scene.

In place of the stormy, black night of the accident the scene shifted, flushed with color, and Francis found himself standing at the back of a warmly lit, somber chapel. The pews were lined in lilies for mourning and filled with familiar distraught faces wherever he looked. Gilbert looked pained, trying to maintain a furious scowl at his best friend for leaving him, but succeeding very poorly thanks to his red-rimmed eyes and the occasional sniff he tried to hide behind a scowl or a grunt. He sat beside his ever-stoic younger brother who held an openly bawling Feliciano, stroking his back with a thumb as he allowed just one moment of public tenderness for his grieving beloved. Elizaveta sat nearby, also weeping in her husband's arms, while Roderich surveyed the proceedings with his usual aloof disinterest. Idly, Francis wondered if he was trying to remain beyond the sorrow to be strong for his wife, or if he was appraising just how much money had been wasted on someone who was dead and gone.

The thought brought a brief, sad smile to his lips as he began to realize just how far gone he was reflected in the grief of the people who had loved him. He glanced away and spotted Antonio, surprisingly beside an agreeable Lovino who had apparently agreed to hold his hand, in secret, between their laps and hidden behind the pew. His parents were not far away with their heads bowed and hands clasped as well. There were classmates from college and former coworkers, patrons of his bakery, along with a few all too familiar lovers, and anyone whose life he had brightened in some way and wanted to say their final goodbyes. Francis was touched, but there was one person he had yet to see among the mourners, the one singular soul he truly wanted to see, and he frowned as he looked imploringly back up at the angel. As if reading his thoughts, the blonde deity gestured toward the back of the church where at last, in a tiny ball of a rumpled black suit, unbrushed, dirty blonde tresses, and anguish, Francis spotted the figure he had been searching for all along, breathing his name like a prayer.

"Arthur…"

Arthur was hunched in his pew alone, having repelled anyone who would offer him condolences long before the service had even started. In one hand he held the crumpled remains of a eulogy Francis already knew would never be heard, and the other clutched a single blood red rose so tightly the thorns could almost bleed their color from his flesh. His shoulders were stooped and withered, broken. Over his frame his ashen skin seemed stretched too thin and his eyes, even downcast, were a muddy, lifeless green. No tears trekked down his cheeks, but Francis knew in the pit of his soul just by the way he looked that he had been crying up until the very moment he had to be seen in public. Arthur never let anyone see him cry. It was the single most heartbreaking thing he had ever seen, in life or afterlife.

Despite being dead, despite knowing it, despite being in a place where he was neither in Heaven or Hell, Francis' heart shattered in his chest with a very real mortal pain. Never before had he seen Arthur, his Arthur, look so small, wounded, and utterly alone. The doubt that everything assaulting him was very much real vanished in an instant seeing that gut wrenching sight, for his mind would not have dared to defile an image of the man he loved with that pitiful husk. Tears rolled, unfelt, down his cheeks, and he reached out for the crushed blonde in the pew, but a tender hand on his shoulder stopped him. He whirled around as the scene faded to a twilight blue, and once again beside him the angel closed his eyes and shook his head.

"But-!" the mortal started hoarsely.

"I'm sorry, Francis. These are but images, shadows, ghosts of what has already been. I just thought… Perhaps you'd like to see this," the angel told him, smiling and gesturing back to the vision.

It had miraculously changed to later in the very same day. The chapel was empty and the lights were dimmed, illuminating only the elaborate casket adorned with a bouquet of pure white lilies and the bent figure with his mussed blonde head bowed before it. Francis gasped and hurried as close as he dared to the lone vision of Arthur bathed in the single shaft of golden light, only close enough to hear him as he fought back tears and spoke for the final time to him.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way, Francis…" Arthur whispered, his voice barely above a choked whisper, "I wasn't supposed to have to say goodbye to you. And it's not goddamn fair."

He had to stop after that, lest he lose control and give in to his infamous temper, still fingering the rose he held in his hands and searching desperately for some kind of solace in the velvety petals and elegant leaves.

"We were supposed to drive each other batty to the grave. We were supposed to be old and gray and bitter, sipping tea with aspirin on the porch and accusing one another of losing each other's glasses, the telly remote, or taking the crossword out of the Sunday paper… There was supposed to be the smell of your cooking on the weekends, two coats on the rack by the door and me refusing to wash those hideous excuses for knickers you insisted on wearing and then leaving all over my flat. We were supposed to fight about something utterly ridiculous and then make up hours later with something so stupidly simple and romantic it doesn't even make sense to us. We were supposed to live our lives in quiet misery, together… And I… I would have gladly spent the rest of mine doing all of that with you," he continued, his voice breaking as he lost the battle with his tears.

He was alone, so he let them come.

"And I know I never said it and I'm a right bastard for that… I never told you how I felt about anything, let alone how I felt about you. I know I didn't say anything for you today either, like the great jackass I am, and I… I am… S-Sorry. But my words weren't really for them anyway. They're not even for me. They're only for you, and I hope to almighty God you can hear me now because I swear if you just left without sticking around to hear all the sickeningly beautiful things everyone had to say about you today I never really knew you at all."

Francis couldn't help but snort and laugh. He was very right, had he the choice, he would have definitely come to his own funeral just to hear everyone praise him to the skies. Arthur managed a tearful laugh as well, one Francis almost mistook for a sob, and laid a hand tenderly on the polished mahogany of the casket.

"Though I wish I knew for sure. I wish I knew beyond a shadow of a fucking doubt that you could hear me so I could say everything I wanted to say and know that you knew it. Because it kills me to think that… You might never have really known how much I…"

He trailed off, choking even then at the mere thought of the words, laughing bitterly and rubbing his eyes.

"Lord, I can't even say it now…" ruefully growled Arthur, "Not even now, when it's bloody too late. But… I should say it once, at least just once for you since you said it enough for both of us. So you damned well better enjoy it, my idiot frog. Enjoy it and this, too… I want you to have something. I wanted to give it to you that night because I was sick and tired of waiting for you to do it, but now… Now I'll never get to, so keep it and everything it means."

Arthur shifted, reached in his pocket, and the tiny glimmering object he withdrew nearly brought Francis to his knees. In his wan fingers, he held a simple engagement ring of the purest white gold etched with a rose. He guided it deftly around the stem of the single real red rose he had been clutching all along, and then slipped it amongst the white bouquet of lilies that would accompany the casket to the grave. It burned into existence, a drop of blood on pure snow, and Arthur kissed his fingers and touched its petals one last time.

"This will always, always belong to you. And so will I, Francis, you git. Because… B-Because I… I love you. I love you, damn it!" he growled, tears rolling down his cheeks as he banged a hand on the lid of the casket, "I love you…"

Francis let the tears come himself, closing his eyes as the vision faded and Arthur's bitter last words rang in his ears.

"I will _never_ love again…"

And then as clearly as he had appeared before him, Arthur vanished, and was replaced by nothing but the purgatory of nothingness Francis had woken up in. The brilliant sunlight that had lit his world cooled to a pale blue and twinkling stars shivered timidly to life above him, leaving him alone with the sound of his sorrows and his tears. He covered his face in his hands and sunk to his knees, weeping, mourning the senseless destruction of the future he never even knew could have been his.

He and Arthur had never once discussed marriage, for unpleasant little subject had no place in their polite conversation. They had never mentioned the future, they never dwelled on the past, they just were, and Francis had loved him that way. It wrenched his heart to know that he would have been proposed to that evening, but it obliterated it completely to know that he never would have accepted. He could already see the tragic scene that might have been in his mind's eye so clearly. Arthur would be beat red, struggling for his words and getting flustered and angry as he teased him for trying for once to be serious. Then the Brit would produce the ring and practically shove it in his face and he would take one look at the glittering, innocent little band of love and devotion and feel the frozen fingers of sheer terror close around his heart and squeeze.

Francis knew then he would have fled to the bathroom until his heart stopped hammering to the point of collapse. He would have stared into the mirror, pale and numb, until he found the right words to tell Arthur that he was so much more than that to him. That they needn't shackle themselves in the bonds of marriage that never did anything but make the greatest of lovers eventually resent one another. That he never wanted them to grow weary of their company and lose their fire that he gladly let consume him and that he, his Arthur, his precious little rabbit, was far too special to ever risk losing with anything more than the perfect balance of what they had. Only once he returned to the table, he knew Arthur would already be gone.

Only in death did he know how he would have ruined the evening and destroyed his one true love, and only in death could he hate himself for it. Since the moment he had entered the world he was a creature of passion, beauty, and love. He had made himself an elusive siren of desire, something so alive and burning with lust and sin one only dared but hold on long enough to get a glimpse. He had loved Arthur with an intensity he thought could only be spoken of in poems and dreamed about in the darkest reaches of the psyche, but never had he imagined that someone would be willing to stand in the flame of his being long enough to hold him forever.

Francis was long gone in his thoughts when a gentle hand on either shoulder shocked him back into reality. He jerked his head up and turned his tear-stained face back up to see both the angel and demon at his side once more with reassuring smiles on their faces.

"Sorry, pal. I know it hurts, but it was important you saw all that. You believe us now, yeah?" the demon asked.

Francis nodded dumbly and thumbed the tears from his eyes. There was no doubt left in his mind that he was in fact dead, but once convinced of that it only left even more questions.

"_Je sais._ I am _**mangeant les pissenlits par la racine**_, as you so kindly put it… And _mon amour_ is all alone now," he acknowledged miserably, "But why _did_ I have to see that? Where am I? Why am I here and who ARE you?"

The demon grinned, his eyes flashing for the first time with a hint of true darkness behind the carefree face.

"Ah, finally you get it and now we get to the nitty-gritty of it all!" he purred, clapping his hands together and rubbing them vigorously.

Francis scowled through his tears, but allowed the angel to help him to his feet as he moved to do so and spoke.

"I suppose first things first. We are respectively representatives of the councils of Heaven and Hell, and we were sent here to find you," he explained as Francis righted himself and faced them, "This place is sort of a… Go between, if you will, between the two. A limbo of sorts. And you're here because… Well…"

The angel stopped himself, eyes shifting as he searched for the right words that would be gentler on the already rattled soul. In the end, there was no good way around it, and he heaved a heavy sigh.

"To be quite blunt, we're not sure what to do with you."

A frown took the place of the heartbreak on Francis' face immediately.

"What do you mean, you don't know what to do with me?" he demanded.

"It's a bit embarrassingly simple, really. Once you look at it. You see, we weren't expecting to receive you exactly when we did. Not even we can completely predict the outcome of a mortal person's actions and well… Going to get that pocket watch for Arthur was outside of what we expected you to do. We assumed you would just bring the original gift and make do to prevent being snapped at and therefore avoid that truck altogether. Being as late as you were, you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time," explained the angel matter-of-factly.

Francis was not so easily assuaged. He narrowed his eyes at the both of them and folded his arms across his chest.

"So what does that have to do with leaving me here to rot in this hell, not even a hell, in this nothingness all alone for TWO months? Not even aware! Not able to go to Arthur's side or even to say goodbye!" he hissed.

"That's just it, since we weren't expecting you to face final judgment just yet we… Were not prepared and neither were you," elaborated the angel.

He snapped his fingers neatly, and in his hands with a bright flash of golden light and a puff of white smoke a golden scroll materialized from thin air. He unfurled it to the ground, snapped his other fingers and conjured a smart pair of rectangular reading glasses that he perched on his nose as he cleared his throat. The demon beside him enthusiastically followed suit and conjured his own ominous scroll of tattered, blackened paper wrapped around what appeared to be a gruesomely decorated bone. He too tossed it to the ground, and as they rolled and bounced in tandem through the clouds toward him, trailing their long ribbons of paper behind, Francis' eyes widened in shock. Written in beautiful golden cursive and in jagged blood on either scroll, was a list of every deed he had ever committed in his entire lifetime on earth.

The one the angel held was filled with glowing, kind and loving acts he had done for others. Among them were written things like, "_Gave Matthew time off to tend to his brother_.", "_Gave Elizaveta a paycheck advance when her car broke down_." and, "_Made lunch for Arthur and snuck in a love note._" The second was slightly more ominous. The crimson and erratic words spoke of things such as, "_Lied to Genevieve about sleeping with her best friend, also sleeping with her best friend._", "_Attempting to bribe cops with sexual favors: see extensive list below._" and, "_Flirted with Alyssa in the jewelry shop and left phone number on the way to anniversary dinner with Arthur_."

Francis glanced back and forth between the two lists, torn between the sheer number of acts of loving kindness he felt far outweighed the depraved things listed on the black scroll and the seemingly meticulous log of every scandalous, horrible thing he had ever gotten away with, or not gotten away with in many cases. Many of them seemed to be taken way out of context as well, in his humble opinion. They also appeared to be suspiciously close in length, and as Francis investigated further he could see that the last two entries on both scrolls were dead even with one another.

"What in the hell is th-" he began, only to be swiftly answered.

"This is the reason you have not been able to cross over completely yet. You see, when each person on Earth dies a qualified Afterlife Representative from both Heaven and Hell is assigned to their case, they compare records, and a decision is made as to which eternal realm their spirit will pass on to. Normally it only takes a short time but… When you died, and we met to deliberate on your records…" the angel informed him, glancing over at his companion for assistance.

"As you can see, it was a dead heat. One hundred percent even! Not a single thing we found really tipped the scales!" the demon continued enthusiastically for him, "And believe me we went back and forth and back and forth forever. So we wandered back home, asked some of the higher ups for help, they had a super long chat, and seems both of us think the other one should take you! They sent us both to tell one another the exact same thing, we butted heads, and then I think that brings us up to speed! You wound up here with us bickering over you because you're really just a liiiiittle bit naughty for Heaven, and just a taaaaad too sweet for Hell. You see?"

The mortal regarded them both with a blank, unreadable expression for several moments as his brain clicked, whirred, and smoked in a vain attempt to try and process everything again. Not only was he dead, worse, Arthur wanted to marry him, and then worse even still the two dubious characters who had come to fetch him had informed him that on top of all of that, eternal rest was still out of his reach.

"You have got to be KIDDING ME!" Francis finally exploded, tangling his hands in his hair, "After all of that? After letting me float around like some twig in a creek for two months, after leading me on and not telling me the truth, after forcing me to see my beloved _petit lapin_ in pain, now you tell me I don't even get to CROSS OVER?"

"No one said THAT," the angel replied testily, "You will cross over somewhere, we just haven't decided where!"

"Well, don't I get a say in this? Do I not have a voice? Will I not get even the chance to defend my life?" Francis snarled, "Did anyone even think to ask ME about any of this? I mean, it is my immortal soul after all!"

Both angel and demon stared at him a moment, completely nonplussed.

"No, that never really came up…" the angel admitted dryly with a shrug.

"Just a thought… Maybe it should have!" Francis bellowed in reply, throwing his hands up as desperation began to tint his pleas, "Come on! How could you even have to think so hard about this? I'm not a bad person! Really I'm not! There are plenty of people who deserve to go to Hell far more than I! Sure, I had a little fun now and then. Who didn't? Especially if you look even half as good as I do! _Et oui_, perhaps I did some stupid and selfish things, but really deep down I'm a beautiful soul who earned an honest living and loved his family and friends and lover with all his heart! How can you possibly damn someone like me to an eternity in misery?"

A flash of annoyance crossed the faces of both immortal beings. Things were complicated enough without Francis' mortal whims and fears, and they both knew all too well what allowing even a bit of human element into ethereal affairs could do.

"You can whine all you like but it really doesn't do you much good! Your records speak for themselves, look!" the angel huffed, promptly swapping scrolls with the demon and unfurling the black list.

He adjusted his glasses primly on the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat, and lifted his chin haughtily as he began to read.

"First of all, the string of jilted lovers and one night stands you've left in your wake automatically raises a red flag, just how many people were you with while you were alive?" he started crisply, leveling an accusatory glare at the mortal.

Francis' eyes shifted to the side and his lips quirked uncomfortably. He had stopped bothering with counting long ago.

"Um…"

"You don't even know, do you? Not to mention the lies you propagated to keep them! You told one woman you were leaving on a humanitarian mission to Africa so you could take another TWO to Paris with you? You put French tutoring posters up on your college campus, just to get the attention of one young man you knew was a French literature major and ignored everyone who called asking until he did! And that's not even the worst of it! You told a nurse at the hospital after your best friend had a severe asthma attack that you were visiting your dying mother just to get her to go out with you? And you left him there! I could go on for eternity!"

"W-White lies! _Petit_, tiny, itty-bitty lies! I didn't want to break their hearts you see! I always ended up confessing! Most of them found it charming I'd say anything to get their attention! And Gilbert was completely happy for me that time, by the way!" the Frenchman countered frantically.

"Lies are lies, Francis. I don't think I've ever met someone who's been slapped, punched, had drinks thrown in his face, and been pushed into planters, fountains, or swimming pools more times than you. And considering how long I have existed that's truly saying something," the angel said disdainfully.

"None of them never meant anything to me anyway! It was merely the hot blood and foolishness of youth and beauty!" Francis pleaded, "I grew up and I saw the error of my ways! My heart learned the fickle ways of _l'amour_, and eventually I found Ar-"

"I wasn't even through," the angel stopped him stonily, "Aside from that there's the matter of your less than admirable way of conducting yourself. You've been arrested several times for public nudity, lewd acts in public as well, and making a pass at more than one officer when they were questioning you! One you even went so far as to FONDLE."

"That wasn't my fault. He was totally giving me a vibe!" Francis groused, crossing his arms over his chest.

"He was FRISKING you!" the angel cried in exasperation.

"Details!" Francis said flippantly with a flourish of his hand.

"And then there was that night at the cabin with those waiters or… Waitresses, or… Whatever they were from that strange fetish club you went to with-"

"We don't talk about that night, damn it!" howled Francis, balling his fists.

"Fine, then what about your infamous little black book, hmm? Your pride and joy? How many names and horrible notes about how good they were in bed were in there?" the angel snapped primly.

"I shall have you know I happen to have burned that!" the blonde mortal harrumphed, lifting his nose in the air.

"Allowed Arthur to burn it, and only after he found it by accident, you mean," came the dry, unamused retort.

"Well I certainly didn't stop him, now did I?"

"Point BEING…" the angel finally declared, swiping his glasses off of his face and letting them vanish with a neat puff of white smoke, "There is a laundry list of unforgivable sins here. As it is right now, there is no way we can allow you through the gates of Heaven."

Francis winced with a half smile and lifted a timid finger into the air.

"_Peut-être_, if that is truly the case, then I could just perhaps go and appeal to… Um, shall we say a higher divine power? Plead my case there and get a second opinion? It cannot hurt, _n'est-ce pas_?" he proposed.

"Absolutely and unequivocally out of the question," the angel retorted so flatly Francis deflated and let the issue be, "There are much more important things for him to attend to than one lost soul who just so happened to fall through the cracks. That's what we're here for."

"I should have known. Nice to see bureaucratic nonsense is alive and well and the quality policy of choice even in the afterlife," Francis muttered sarcastically.

"My boss might be willing to have a chat with you, buddy!" the demon finally chimed in, "But I dunno if you really want to. Especially if you're still on that whole 'Oh no please, Mister, don't damn me to Hell I'm not bad really!' thing!"

Francis scowled distastefully at the feminine mocking tone in which the demon chose to represent his voice.

"I'll pass on that, _merci beaucoup_. I think your boss and I already quite agree," he muttered.

"Pretty much! I mean, kinda sucks to hear all the bad shit, but you have a nice long list of good stuff, too! See?" the horned brunette chirped, waving the golden scroll that had been foisted upon him, "You were a good kid, did well in school, got along with everyone. You were always kind to your parents and a respectable member of your family. There was the time you took a whole month off of school to go back to France when your father got sick right? You had to make up all your finals and missed assignments in a summer session! But you did what you needed to do!"

For the first time since he had realized he was dead, a small smile crossed the Frenchman's lips. He very clearly remembered that particular semester and the sacrifices he had made for his family and he regretted not a single moment of it. He never regretted sacrificing for the benefit of others.

"_Oui_, I did. I was happy to. I have always been willing to do anything for the people I love," he whispered.

"Exactly! You opened a successful bakery everyone loves, you know practically all your customers by name and their favorite treat. You always have Gilbert's inhaler when you go out because you know he won't bring it himself. You encouraged Feliciano to keep on trying to get with his blonde German stud muffin of a brother even though by all appearances he was totally not interested, and look how happy they are now! You lend Elizaveta money when her husband's being a cheapskate and you always make sure to greet Matthew first in the morning because you know he's all quiet and stuff and tends to get ignored. And as big of a deal as sir holier-than-thou over here makes it, you never deliberately hurt anyone in your little romantic conquests. In fact, you sort of went out of your way to be romantic as possible, which is why you kinda got beat up on so bad when it all fell apart, you know?" the demon went on, pointing to various spots on the list and snickering.

Though all Francis could hear were the names of his friends and how much all the simple, easy little things he did mattered to them and to him in the end. He could hardly bear to imagine a morning opening up shop at _Le Lapin Doux_ without him ruffling Matthew's hair, starting the ovens with Feliciano or tossing Elizaveta her apron with a wink and a cheerful thought to begin the day.

"So see? We really just CAN'T justify damning someone to Hell who spends all day making a special custom cake for his boyfriend and treating his employees, friends, and family like gold. That and the way you were with Arthur, sheesh. You did some really sickeningly sweet things for him," the demon went on, teasing him with a finger pointed into his mouth in a gagging motion, "All the love notes, flowers to his office, massages, cooking dinner for him, prepacking lunches for the next day, surprise gifts and compliments up the wazoo, bringing him freshly baked sweets and coffee to the office to pull all nighters with him, and not to mention all the-"

The smile grew brighter as the demon rambled on about his love, thinking of the tiny, reserved smile Arthur would allow himself at random roses tucked behind his ear, a chair pulled chivalrously out for him, or his favorite movies and snacks waiting on his counter after a long week at work. He could still hear the peal of his genuine laughter the rare times he allowed it, the way his name sounded breathed in the midst of passion into his neck, and even the way he would splutter and snap and nag when he remembered he was supposed to be bristly and combative after a random act of love. He still recalled the sensation of his fingers twined shyly into his own walking down the street back to one of their apartments, depending upon who won the usual argument over where to stay, or of those same fingers tangled into his golden curls when he thought he was actually asleep. Francis closed his eyes to see once more the light in his emerald eyes, the cocky grin of victory on his pale, beautifully smug face and even the rare, gentle expression of contentment meant only for him in their quiet, unspoken moments of laying together, saying nothing but allowing themselves just once just to be. The memory of him, his Arthur, his _rosbif_ and _salaud_ and beloved ornery bushy-browed son of a bitch was still so intense it was hard to believe he was merely a memory. Even harder still to believe was the fact that he too, was merely a memory to Arthur, and one two months already faded.

"Sure he did plenty of kind acts, but we can't truly see into his heart. How do we even know he was doing them out of genuine affection? He could have just been doing it for his own ends! He certainly did it plenty of times before Arthur, I'm sorry to be so cold Francis, but it is true," the angel barked, disrupting Francis' fond reminiscing.

He glowered, unnoticed, as the demon thumbed his scruffy chin and hummed as he considered the point.

"Huh. I suppose that could be true. Entirely possible Francis never loved him in the first place. Maybe just got comfortable with him, getting a little older, wanting some stability in life… Mmmm. Yeah I could definitely see-"

"No. Enough. You're wrong," Francis cut in firmly before either could soil the beautiful memories any further.

The unyieldingly passionate words from the usually frantic and frazzled mortal were more than enough to halt another argument before it began and glean the unwavering attention from both heavenly and hellish creatures.

"But we were merely discussing," the angel said defensively.

"Discussing my ass! Don't you dare talk about my relationship with Arthur that way! I love him. I've loved him since the moment I saw him, even if I was too stupid and selfish to realize until later. Arthur is… Was… The most beautiful, amazing, obnoxiously addictive stubborn _salaud_ I ever knew. And I love him," Francis insisted passionately, bowing his head.

"Not enough to marry him, apparently," the angel reminded him, "I saw your face when you watched the vision."

Francis' head snapped back up, blue eyes flashing dangerously.

"That means nothing! That was my own fear and cowardice. My own fear of losing him, of changing our relationship and ruining it. It had nothing to do with not loving him! Absolutely nothing!" he retorted.

"I dunno, people generally want to marry people they're truly in love with. I mean, even Arthur, ARTHUR, nasty spiteful callous Arthur finally up and decided to just take the plunge with you. Yet you probably would have ditched him," the demon pondered, his face suddenly illuminating with inspiration at his own thought, "Oh hey! Maybe I can add that to my list! Might help us make the final decision!"

The mortal before him balked immediately with a squeak.

"No no no! Wait!" he cried, waving his hands feverishly, "Don't do that! It's nothing! That doesn't count! If I could do everything all over again it would be alright! I'd make it right I swear! You have to believe that my future with Arthur would have been bright. What we had… It was like nothing I ever had with anyone, I would have fought to keep it with everything I had! Because it was love, TRUE love. I knew it then and I know it now! We were meant to be! Soul mates!"

Both his inquisitors looked pensive a moment, considering his argument. They glanced at one another in silent communication, something passing between them Francis could not decipher, and then turned back to him with serious expressions once more.

"You say that now, after the fact and looking back on your life with the advantage of hindsight, and we do hear you, it's just…" the angel lamented with a heavy sigh, "We only have our records to go on, speculation and hypothesis on what _might_ have become of you, of what _could_ have been are just… Too weak. And even if we wanted to, we can't use them as grounds to make a decision, anyway. We can only judge you on your life as it was until the moment it ended. That's all."

And in just a few words, all hope, all passion, and efforts to charm and talk his way out of a predicament were instantaneously incinerated. Frustration and sorrow mounting, Francis tangled his hands into his wavy golden hair and ground his teeth, but still determined he remained steadfast in the battle for his own soul. Arthur would never forgive him if he gave up on himself, or conceded that the only thing he knew for sure about his life was never actually true; that he had indeed known the truest of love.

"Says who anyway? What rule is that?" he challenged bravely, "If you're at an impasse why not look at other things? Why not consider my heart and my feelings now at the end of my life? Perhaps you do not care, perhaps this is just another day of work for you, but this is everything to me! I died in the middle of a romance only poets and dreamers dared to describe the power of. It changed me, it brought me happiness like none I could have imagined beforehand, and yes, it was a tragically short portion of my life, but I will not sit idly by and let it count for nothing in my final judgment! I want Arthur to live his life believing that I will be waiting for him with open arms at the gates of Heaven to greet him. I want him to know what we had cannot be destroyed merely by us being separated, that love is far more powerful than death, and that I will always be with him, protecting him, watching over him, that I am a part of him forever. So if you cannot decide based solely on me, then… Look to Arthur. He is the other half of my soul…"

Francis finished his poetic rhetoric with a hand over his chest where he could almost still feel his valiant, lover's heart beating and his eyes to the bright sunny sky. The angel appeared moved, if only for a moment, while his devilish counterpart covered his mouth with a hand as if he were about to be physically ill.

"Yeah seriously… Not Hell material, for sure," the demon gurgled, looking strangely green.

The angel closed his eyes, looking torn beside his stricken partner, and chewed his lower lip for a moment before he weighed in.

"You make a compelling argument, Francis. You truly do, and I feel for you. I just…" he said, grimacing, "I just still have a hard time believing that what you and Arthur had was true love. Especially soul mates. People love to use that word but it is so uncommon, so rare and beautiful I can't help but dou-"

"Then let me prove it!" Francis proclaimed at last, his voice ringing clear above the luminescent clouds around them.

Angel and demon both lifted their eyes with curious interest toward Francis, glanced at one another, and then looked back at him, soliciting his further explanation.

"Let me prove it to you, if you don't believe me," Francis quickly repeated, "I'll do anything, whatever it takes! Let it be the deciding factor! The thing to tip the scales, as you put it! Let my fate ride on one final test!"

Taking a back seat to the proceedings for the most part, the demon had up until that point been content to simply snicker, poke fun and make offhanded remarks. Once the idea of an ultimatum came into play, it was he who stepped forward, his bright copper colored eyes eager.

"Like a bet, you mean?" he asked with relish, "A cosmic wager that you can prove to us that you really do love your little Brit and he loves you and are therefore worthy of the Kingdom of Heaven?"

Hope flared renewed in Francis' heart and he nodded vigorously. Finally, he seemed to have some measure of clout in the discussion, that edge of charm and wit he so prided himself on to win his way into anything he desired.

"_Exactement_! A little gamble! My soul against any task you design to prove myself in your eyes, however you may want to do so!" he agreed with a handsomely rakish grin.

A dark kind of gleeful plotting flickered over the demon's face as he considered the proposal. The resulting smirk told Francis he was already concocting the terms and conditions.

"I do love a good gamble," he purred, "And given the… Unforeseen complications of this case, perhaps this is exactly what we need. What say you, old friend?"

He turned toward the angel, who started slightly as if he had been in deep thought and unexpected to reply.

"I- Well, I don't know. It is a bit unorthodox, but… Not unheard of to pose some kind of a test toward a human soul in order to proceed with final judgment. What did you have in mind?" he asked skeptically.

"Well, since lover boy over here keeps claiming it's his undying love for Arthur that should be paying the balance on his one way ticket to the pearly gates, I'm thinking we let him show us just how much faith he has in the power of true love," the dark creature crooned.

The angel screwed his eyes shut hard and cupped his chin, but Francis would not give him the opportunity to dissent.

"My faith is absolute!" he assured them, striking a confident pose, "Anything! Ask anything of me and I will dazzle you with how deeply, indisputably, and passionately Arthur and I were in love!"

The demon grinned shrewdly, steepling his fingers and working very hard to contain his excitement. Francis could tell he already had some sort of a ploy or a test brewing in his horned head and braced himself for whatever it might be, which, judging by the sinful grin on his face, the Frenchman guessed would be no small task.

"Perfect… Then answer me this first. Do you REALLY believe in such a thing called true love?" the demon queried, hooding his eyes.

"More than anything in the world," came the loving answer.

"Do you truly believe, in your heart of hearts, that love knows no boundaries, no limitations, that it is, as you say, a stronger force than even death?" the demon went on in a musical tone, flourishing a hand darkly.

"Of course I do, I would not be staking my fate upon it if I did not! Love is the only force in the universe that could ever hope to best the darkest of them all. A light among lights, truth among truth!" Francis replied theatrically, unnerved by the approaching demon and the predatory gleam in his eye, but standing firm.

"Ahhh! Lovely! Then do you believe that love also conquers all, that love knows no reason nor rhyme? That it can bring down Gods and mortals alike, and can even alter destiny itself?" the teasing interrogation went on.

"_Oui, oui, et oui_. I have said that all my life and I still say it now!" Francis answered grandly, impervious.

Seemingly pleased with his answers and done with his jest, the demon cocked his head to the side with a wide, toothy smirk that finally revealed his long wicked fangs. He drew dramatically on his final query, letting the heavy aura of the weight of it settle over the trio gathered there in the pure white nothingness before he finally spoke.

"Do you believe then that love is… _Blind_?" he asked, slowly, lingering on the last word like some kind of magical incantation.

Perplexed by the question, Francis frowned, but dared not hesitate to answer.

"_Oui_… I do, love is nothing if not blind. A force that cannot be explained by mere sight, or even touch, sound, scent alone… A feeling between two people that is pure and absolute," he replied carefully.

"Fantastic!" the demon sang, clasping his hands, "Then would you, Francis Bonnefoy, be willing to stake your very fate, your soul, on your UNYEILDING faith that your Arthur would love you in return, no matter what? No matter what might happen between you, no matter how insurmountable the odds, no matter the situation or existence or even… What you look like…?"

Francis knew not what conclusion the demon was aiming toward, but for his soul, for his love, to prove himself right against the very forces of the universe itself, he would have agreed to pretty much anything.

"_Bien sûr, mes amis_!" he chorused, a mischievous glint in his eye once more, "No matter what obstacle may lie in our path, I personally guarantee, and hang my fate upon the fact that Arthur would love me as truly and deeply as he always did. For the flame of our love will burn eternally!"

The demon threw his head back in raucous, mirthful laughter, while beside him, the angel seemed to have realized what he was scheming and wore a stark expression of horror. He shook his head stiffly, sky blue eyes wide as his hand strayed once again to the hilt of the golden blade strapped to his hip.

"Oh no… Nooo no. You are not thinking what I think you're thinking. That is-! It's simply-! It's ludicrous! It's insane!" he protested.

"Awwww. Why not? We need something to make a decision on, he's willing to prove himself, and I say we let him!" the demon announced, sliding over and slinging an arm over his companion, "Come ooooon. It's been so LONG since we had a little fun with a case! We used to do stuff like this all the time, remember?"

White wings rustled nervously, and sky blue eyes shifted to the side as a light color rose in the angel's ivory cheeks.

"Well I… Th-That was a different time! The rules were a little more nebulous back then and we had more power. And not to mention that was before I was sanctioned so many times for toying with mortals unnecessarily, thanks to you and your little games!" he hissed.

"But this time it's perfect! We have the toughest case of a century, a willing soul AND the right circumstance to make a REALLY interesting bet of it!" the demon persisted, flashing a grin back toward Francis, "Francis here is willing to try _anything_, he said! Even something crazy! You say your Arthur would feel your love, reawaken to it, rekindle it, no matter what, right? So… If we say… Sent you back to Earth, but! This time in a different body. A different face, a different voice, different touch! Would that not be the ultimate test of faith? If he fell in love with you all over again, despite not even being the Francis he knows, would that not be irrefutable proof that your love was in fact, true love?"

Francis felt as if the truck had hit him all over again in one gruesome instant. His head spun, his jaw fell open, and his mind came to a screeching halt against the sheer magnitude of what had just been offered to him. He had a second chance. A completely insane, reckless, and potentially disastrous second chance, but a second chance nonetheless. He could return to life. He could return to Arthur, romance him all over again, hold him, hear his voice and smell his familiar scent of old books and tea one last time. He could save his own soul and be granted his stolen opportunity to bid a final farewell to the only man who had ever managed to capture his heart.

"You can… You can really do that?" Francis finally asked breathlessly.

"Duh! Powers that be here, Francis! Powers that be!" the demon snorted.

The angel sighed and nodded, as much as he hated to agree with his counterpart.

"Technically yes. We can do pretty much anything within reason, and as I mentioned we… Do make exceptions in special cases such as yours in order to come to a final decision," he confessed, rubbing his temples.

"Then let me try!" Francis implored once more, "Return me to Earth, make me a deal! I will do it, no matter what the odds are! _S'il vous plaît_!"

Suddenly finding himself in the hopeful gaze of both Francis and his insufferable partner, the angel grimaced, fidgeted, and mumbled until he was forced to at least budge with a groan.

"But we don't even have a form for him to take! We can't exactly create a brand new vessel for him out of nothing, and it may take months, years, before we can find a suitable replacement," he objected.

The demon cracked a crooked grin and reached out to flick the golden halo of light around his head smartly. It jostled merrily around his skull, and he delighted in the indignant squeak it drew out of the angel as he seized it to steady it.

"C'mon pal, give me a little more credit than that! Don't you think I already had something in mind? As it just so happens to turn out there IS a nice, healthy young body that is currently unoccupied and prime for our buddy here to use!" the demon snickered.

Francis perked up immediately, blue eyes glittering with hope.

"_Vraiment_?" he piped.

"Oh yes. A lost little soul trapped in between existences just like you! And as it so happens… One you already know quite well. And so does Arthur…" the grinning demon extrapolated.

Before Francis could open his mouth to question, and almost before he could even furrow his brow in confusion, the demon flourished his hands and bade the clouds beside him to rise with a brilliant flash of light. They obeyed, rose into a swirling column, and just as quickly burst into glittering mist, leaving behind a tall, male figure in their wake. Francis took one innocent glance and knew in one horrible fraction of a second exactly who it was. The soul presented to him was one he had met but a few times, but felt he knew more intimately than he ever wanted to. His was a cursed, forbidden name so often accompanied by the foulest obscenities known to man, hurled objects, and fiery rage hotter than the very flames of hell itself. A devil among men, a liar, a tramp, an immature brat and countless other evil roles that could only be ascribed to someone who had broken his beloved's heart so totally and so badly, he had come to jokingly refer to him to his friends as 'he who must not be named." The form he was to occupy was the very definition of wickedness; the evil twin to his beloved employee, the most reviled ex boyfriend in the history of ex boyfriends, and a demon in a leather bomber jacket.

Beside him, suspended peacefully in midair with his eyes closed in the same white robe with his flyaway hair and his rectangular glasses still perched on his nose, was the unmistakable figure of Alfred F. Jones.

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Whoa whoa whoa, hold the phone! The hell is HE doing here? Well I know, of course, but I'm not telling! So what in the world does Alfred have to do with all of this? And what will be the terms of Francis' little bet? Bet he's wishing he took his chances with Hell about now hehe. Find out next time when all mysteries will be revealed and Francis begins the battle for his very own soul. Stay tuned!


	4. Being Alfred F Jones

**Author's Note: **HEEEEEY so I'm back! 8D Miss me? I missed you too ; 3 ;! Sorry I took forever and a day on this chapter but it unfortunately sort of got stuck in the perfect storm of writer's block and IRL. I am currently looking for a permanent career job as my current one is not only balls but temporary :T And those of you who have ever had the misfortune of having to search for a career know how much THAT sucks. You kiddies who are still in school enjoy it while you caaaan D: But here I am! Your fairy god crow with some delicious fan ficcery! C: So sit back and enjoy, and I promise now I'll update soon! (My hours were just cut at work after all :T!)

-Crow

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**Chapter 4**

_Being Alfred F. Jones_

A long, shrill scream echoed far over the rolling plains of clouds and pierced the heavens with the sheer magnitude of its ire. Angel and demon both cringed and covered their ears in the aftermath as a hysterical Francis pointed frantically toward the spirit beside him.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? What the HELL is THIS?" he screeched.

The demon pursed his lips, affronted, and put his hands on his hips.

"Looks like one Alfred F. Jones to me. You know! Works with Arthur, had a tumultuous love affair with him that ended disastrously, continued to haunt your own relationship until the day you died, general lazy nuisance to many!" he replied.

"I am all too painfully aware of WHO it is, but WHY is he here?" Francis clarified, seething through his teeth.

"Bro you're dead, not deaf, I just now told you, he's available!" the demon went on, snapping his fingers toward the second mortal summoned to the scene.

Alfred stirred at the sharp sound as if prodded from a long and much needed repose. His eyes squeezed shut before they fluttered open while he drifted slowly to alight on the ground on bare feet. He touched down with light, fluid grace, lifted his head as his playful cobalt eyes lit with consciousness, and looked around his surroundings with curiosity. A slight frown marred his youthful face as he took in the same initial sight of the boundless clouds that Francis had, then transformed into one of shock as he spotted the angel and demon keeping a vigil over him. His head whipped around in disbelief and he finally took in the view of a chagrined Francis beside him with his arms over his chest, doing his best to reduce him to a pile of ash with naught but his venomous glare. The sandy-haired, bespectacled youth stared at him the longest, his gaze unwavering, scrutinizing, recognition clear in his eyes before he whistled through his teeth in awe.

"Dude…" Alfred whispered at last, "Mattie was totally right after all about that whole sugar before bed gives you nightmares thing!"

Francis twitched, unamused.

"Don't look at ME when you say things like that, _gosse odieux_!" he snapped.

Alfred recoiled, as if shocked his dream would actually talk back to him, and held up his arms defensively.

"Damn! Since when do my dreams talk smack? …And call me weird made-up names in hideous languages?" he pondered aloud.

The scowl on Francis' face deepened and he balled his fists at his sides.

"First of all. This isn't a dream, and second of all that was FRENCH you uneducated-"

"Enough! Alfred F. Jones!" the angel cut in abruptly, the frustration clear on his face and in his words.

Alfred turned around to face him, eyes obliviously wide and unafraid.

"Yo?"

"Allow me to explain, _again_. Before this turns into another comedy of errors," the angel sighed, rubbing his temples, "This is Francis, I'm sure you know who he is. You have met before. Francis is dead, this is I guess what you might call purgatory, I am a representative from Heaven, my esteemed colleague here is some low level lackey from Hell, and we have been unable to determine which destination he is to proceed on to and we have decided unofficially to pose a task to him so we need your body… Seeing as you have been in a coma since about a week before he died and currently have no use for it."

The angel rattled off the current state of affairs in a brusque tone, and a stark look of horrified remembrance crossed Alfred's face.

"Oh crap… That's right…" he realized aloud, putting a hand to his forehead.

Francis too, seemed to remember at last that Matthew had mentioned something about his brother and an accident some time prior to his own, and that was the reason for the leave of absence he had requested. He had not, however, divulged any sort of detail as to the nature of his older brother's misfortune.

"A coma? What the hell happened to you?" Francis asked nastily.

Alfred regarded him with a blank stare for several moments and Francis could see the thoughts churning painfully in his head. He quickly righted himself, cocked his hips with his usual brash confidence and grinned with a booming laugh.

"Dude it was like, totally awesome, you should have been there! Check it! So me and Mattie are up in this bumpin' club, right? And we've got some cool brewskies for cheap, tunes are pretty sweet, but the best part was we spotted these two total hotties alone at the bar ripe for the picking! One for each of us! Mattie's not nearly as slick with the ladies as me, so I drag him over and we start chatting them up, you know? But soon as we get them all giggly and blushing and playing with their hair and order a round, their huge, roid raging, wannabe jock ex-boyfriends show up! And they're all, 'Hands off our bitches, fags!' and I was all, 'We can talk this out, like gentleman and shit!" and they were like, 'We'll fuck you up, like gentleman and shit!' so then I'm like, 'Bring it!' And then these two huge mothers leap on me like the goddamn Hulk or something! And I'm throwing punches like crazy and Mattie and the girls are screaming and the two jerks are grabbing me and kicking me and I'm biting and wrestling and we tear up the place in an epic battle of good versus evil! I'm taking on TWO guys like a total hero but they shove me out of the club and onto the balcony! I give'em a left hook! And a wicked right! And a swift kick to the balls for good measure! But that just pisses them off and in the end they get me trapped like a rat, back against the railing and nowhere to go but DOWN! They pick me up and they're all, 'Hasta la vista, baby!' and then, they hurl me over the side like nothing! And I'm all, 'NOOOOOO!' but it's too late and I fall like 100 feet AT LEAST and BAM! Hit the ground! Instant coma!"

The fantastical story was accompanied by an energetic pantomime of the entire incident, complete with voices, his own hand choking him and wildly jabbing punches, and even throwing himself to the cloudy ground at the end for his dramatic fall. Francis stared at him skeptically, his eyes narrowed, somehow not quite swayed by what was supposed to be a gripping tale of heroism. Mirthful laughter erupted from the direction of the two immortals standing beside them, and they both turned at once toward the curly-haired demon who was doubled over in hysterics.

"Give me a break! That's not even close to what happened!" he guffawed, "Though a pretty badass story, I'll give you that! I'll tell you what REALLY happened! You were flexing and vogueing it up in front of the mirror alone in the bathroom after a shower like you always do, admiring that body and those RIPPED muscles of yours, and you slipped in the not unsubstantial puddles you always leave, fell and hit your head on the toilet!"

The demon had to stop, his snickering overcoming him, while Alfred's face washed in mortified horror.

"You cracked your skull in three places and almost bled out before your brother finally found you! Naked in the bathroom in a pool of your own blood!" he added, howling amusedly and pointing toward him.

Then, it was finally Francis' turn to join in the laughter, throwing his head back with a peal of musical glee.

"Oh, that is just _delightful_! Just the way I would have imagined it! Were you practicing your pick-up lines in the mirror, too?" he cackled with relish.

Much to his satisfaction, Alfred winced and balled his fists, as only a comment that struck a sore nerve could have achieved.

"Shut up! Those lines happen to work every time, thank you! And I bet you croaked choking on a snail or a baguette or whatever!" he countered.

The laughter persisted, even despite the quip.

"You would assume death by food," Francis chortled, lifting his nose in the air, "It was a car accident, I shall have you know! A pretty spectacular one, too. I was hit by an eighteen-wheeler. And didn't even perish the first time! Ran me clear off the highway and then crushed me again against a tree."

Francis grinned as he recounted his own tragically brutal death, and Alfred's eyes went wide in momentary awe before he puffed out his cheeks and turned away.

"Pffft, car accident, that's a bitch way to go out. Least mine'll make a funny story when I wake up," he pouted.

"Amusing to WHOM?" Francis scoffed, still snickering, "The criminally insane?"

The younger soul whirled around on him again, blue eyes flashing behind his glasses.

"Dude, serious! What the hell is your problem with me anyway? What'd I ever do to you?" he demanded.

The oblivious ignorance of those shocking words turned the mockingly amused laughter from the other mortal bitter.

"What did you do? What did you DO? You seriously have to ask? You shattered my Arthur's heart into a thousand pieces! That's what you did! He was haunted by the ghost of you for so long, even I had a part of finally chasing you from his life and making him smile again! You continued to be a pall on our love even to this day on occasion! Your very name became a curse!" he informed him in as mordant a tone as he could muster.

Alfred listened, blinking cluelessly, until it all percolated into his brain and formed a very clear picture of the reason for the Frenchman's disdain. A knowing smirk crept over his face as his eyes narrowed shrewdly.

"Ohhh, that's right, you are Artie's new squeeze, huh? Or should I say old flame?" he queried smugly, closing his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest, "I totally get you now. Mmmmyup, sure do! I know how hard it is to get over the old _Al_-pha dog. It's no wonder Artie kept on thinkin' about me. But you can't tie Alfred F. Jones down, no sir! I am a free bird, a lone wolf! You know what I'm sayin'?"

"Al… Pha dog…? Ugh, _dégoûtant_. You do not seriously call yourself that do you?" Francis said as he recoiled.

"Jeeeeealous?" Alfred crowed, puffing out his chest again.

"_Jamais_! Why would I even think of being jealous of you?" the other rebuked with revulsion.

"Sounds to me like you have plenty of reasons! A. I'm a total fox. B. Artie probably still calls my name in bed. And C. You're dead, I'm just in a coma, I get to wake up!" came the chipper answer as Alfred counted off on his fingers.

A deep, scathing silence settled over all gathered there in that indistinct spot in the middle of limbo. The angel and the demon watched with interest as Francis became still and silent as a marble statue, fury flickering in his cobalt eyes, and Alfred put his hands on his hips with earsplitting laughter. The standoff endured for what may as well have been eternity before finally, it was Francis who snapped, eyes wild and chest heaving as he seethed and struggled to form coherent words in his blinding outrage.

"Did you hear-? Did he really just say-? I can't believe you'd even SUGGEST-! He's nothing but a-! Do you REALLY expect me to go back as… As-! As THAT?" he screeched, pointing a finger back toward a still cackling Alfred, "This is IMPOSSIBLE! I'd have a better chance of winning Arthur back as an actual talking FROG than that imbecile!"

Neither the insult, nor the ironic choice of animal seemed to faze Alfred, but a curious realization did dawn across his youthful face.

"Yeah what's up with that, anyway? I kinda sorta heard you say something about needing my body before? Probably shoulda been paying attention to that part… Cause, I'm not so sure I'm cool with yanno, giving up the steering wheel, so to speak?" he interjected, holding up a finger.

Taking the opportunity to get a word in edgewise in the chaos that had erupted from his partner's choice of a surrogate body, the angel stepped forward, blue eyes hard and serious and radiating a commanding light.

"If you had listened the first time, you would have heard. We are trying, trying so very… VERY hard to determine if Francis will cross over to Heaven or Hell, and it seems the best we can come up with is to give him a challenge to finally give us something definitive to work with. Since you are not currently occupying your body, we would send him back to take it for a short time. He has wagered his immortal soul that Arthur's love for him will endure, and that he can rekindle it again, even in a form not his own. You… Just so happened to be the best candidate at the time," he explained, sighing and casting an accusatory glare at the demon behind him.

The demon shrugged nonchalantly while Alfred thumbed his chin in thought.

"Whoa, that's like straight out of a comic book or a really bad movie or something! So Francis here goes back to Earth in my body, chats up Artie, they hit it off and make some kissy face and then he gets to climb the stairway to Heaven? But if not it's straight down to h-e-double hockey sticks?" he surmised in a chipper tone.

"That's the idea, yes," dryly responded the angel.

"Well then what's in it for me?" came the immediate and still too blithe demand, "I mean that's a pretty tall order and all. Can't expect me to give up the goods for free. Why the hell should I let him use this hotness to win back _my_ ex-boyfriend?"

"_My_ current lover. And your ex-boyfriend because YOU left HIM!" Francis made sure to remind him from the sidelines.

"Still!" Alfred insisted with all the aloof and amused confidence he had begun with, lifting his chin, "Guy code, you know? You're NEVER allowed to be cool with someone else dating your ex! Much less help the new guy out!"

"Guy code…? What guy code? There is no mystical code that says that! You two aren't together anymore, what was Arthur supposed to do after you broke up? Take a vow of celibacy and join the priesthood? I mean honestly!" Francis sniffed, far less amused than his spirit companion.

"No, I'm just not supposed to support him being with anyone else! Duh! C'mon! You get it! Guy code!" insisted the other.

"No, I do not get it. I do not get it at all! That makes absolutely no sense! If you're broken up and you were the one who ended it, why should you care what he does or who he dates?"

The American looked so deeply confused, Francis wondered for a moment if he had slipped into French again.

"Because!" he finally answered, "It's like-! You know when you're with someone, and even if you don't like them you don't want them to do well after you or whatever? You can't just be COOL. Because I've been there, done that you know? You gotta want them to still be missing you and junk 'cause-! I dunno, it's just the rule!"

Not a single intelligent response Francis could come up with seemed worthy enough to even waste his breath, so he turned, deadpan, back to the angel and demon.

"This is not going to work," he muttered.

"It totally could. Seeing how awesome I am. But, I still don't see any good reason why I should give up MY body when Artie's done with me and I don't even have a chance with him afterward!" Alfred retorted smugly.

The angel simply sighed, seeing the plan he had never favored falling apart and not truly desirous of a solution to fix it. Francis buried his face in his hands with a dramatic wail, moaning and shaking his head as he blubbered on in muffled French. Sensing his fun was about to be completely spoiled, however, the demon stepped forward, copper eyes glinting and hands spread out welcomingly.

"Oh you have a pretty good reason, I'd say. You are in a coma, yes, however! Your brain is scrambled egg about now. So in reality, we're probably just waiting for your dear little brother to have to pull the plug," he added with dark enchantment.

Alfred balked in horror, Francis' head jerked up, and he swore he saw him drain of all color, despite being but a spirit. Despite his teasing and his purposefully obnoxious words, to be reminded once more of the very real tragedy they had all unwittingly become players in sobered them both instantly.

"I mean, you COULD get better on your own, maybe… But, you could also be a champ let Francis use your body so we can play our little game, and then not only will I personally make sure you make a miraculous recovery, I'll… Erase a few things off your naughty list, shall we say? Otherwise you're on the right track to seeing me again nice and soon. You haven't exactly been a saint yourself," the demon purred.

The two mortals both gasped softly in unison and each turned to regard each other wordlessly, calmly, and with reason for the first time since arriving in the afterlife. Two pairs of blue eyes met in silent and sudden camaraderie in the face of mutual destruction, each somehow gazing straight into the heart of the other past their initial blaze of enmity. Francis knew Alfred longed to continue his wild young life that had only just begun, that he was horrified at the thought of his sweet, innocent little brother having to order his demise, loathe as he was to allow someone else to occupy his earthly body, and that despite his bravado he truly wished for Arthur's happiness. Alfred could all too clearly see the love and passion for him in Francis' very essence, the broken heart, and the willingness to do anything in his power to protect Arthur and to watch over him, even if their time together had been cut tragically short. No words passed between them, but the angel and the demon could sense even more acutely than either mortal that each was beginning to believe in the impossible. Francis and Alfred wanted the same things, in the end, and at last they finally saw a spark of a plan, a crazy, completely insane, utterly moronic idea that just might work after all.

"Besides!" the demon broke the quiet boisterously, "Come on Francis! What happened to your gallant knight in shining armor attitude before about doing anything to ensure you could be waiting for Arthur in Heaven when he comes to join you? What about soul mates? Meant to be? True love!"

Francis looked up to his grinning countenance, his face softening and eyes glinting with love and regret.

"And Alfred!" the demon continued, turning to the second mortal to appeal to him, "You fancy yourself a hero right? You and Arthur aren't together anymore, but you still care about the guy, don't you? Wouldn't you want to help the man he ended up falling in love with? Don't you want to give him some kind of a happily ever after? For both their sakes!"

A crooked smirk crept over Alfred's lips and he snorted with laughter as he cocked his head back toward the Frenchman.

"Yeah… Sorry, I guess now isn't really a time to be yanking your chain like I did. And I suppose you and Artie do deserve a happy ending, even if it's not really the one you might have liked," he admitted warmly.

Francis returned the smile and the laugh genuinely.

"And I suppose you do deserve to live, as much as _mon cher_ Arthur might wish the opposite," he affirmed, bowing his head sorrowfully to breathe the name of his love once more.

The pain did not go unnoticed by Alfred, whose smile turned sympathetically mournful.

"You really do love him, don't you?" he noted tenderly.

The ache in Francis' very soul throbbed acutely again as he nodded and pressed his hands to his chest.

"More than anything…" he breathed.

"Then hey, maybe this idea is just crazy enough to work!" Alfred piped, laying a hand on Francis' shoulder and making a firm fist with the other, "It'll be the greatest love story ever told! Or… The greatest ghost story ever told… Ugh, wait no, no way! Never mind, not a ghost story. Definitely love! We'll go with love!"

He winked rakishly, and Francis couldn't help but be swept up into his infectious optimism.

"Most decidedly an epic tale of _l'amour_ most deep, and most true, but a little bit of a ghost story as well," he teased with a snicker.

Alfred shuddered and flailed in protest but into their newfound agreement the demon stepped once more.

"So!" he announced, clapping his hands with a devilish grin, "We have a battle plan?"

"I suppose we have…" Francis replied with amused disbelief.

"Definitely! I'll be more than happy to let Frankie here use my body!" Alfred concurred as he slung an arm around his shoulders.

Where once there was wistful acceptance of fate and a deal that would test his very soul to the limit, instant disgust marred his handsome features.

"…Frankie? Where the hell did that come from?" the man in question balked.

The American threw his head back with forceful laughter and jabbed a finger into his new partner's chest.

"Dude, you gotta know Francis is pretty much like the girliest guy name ever. If we're gonna be partners I need something way manlier to call you! Frankie sounds kinda tough and cool! Like a New York cab driver or something, you know?" he explained, laughing again.

"I happen to like Francis…" he groused to himself through the din.

And only silence greeted Alfred as the angel and demon finally roused again to get to business and joined the two mortals. The demon was practically jumping out of his skin with uncontained, childish excitement, but the angel beside him still looked stony and skeptical.

"You two are truly willing to do this?" he queried.

Alfred gave him his best military salute and a beaming grin, while Francis flourished a hand and dipped low in a gentlemanly bow.

"Sir, yes sir!"

"I accept your challenge, _messieurs_, and I intend to dazzle you both!"

Still not convinced, sky blue eyes narrowed and scoured both blondes before him. Their bold confidence and renewed determination was bright as the sun above and they both courageously met his eyes in silent promise of their intentions. He turned to look at his dark counterpart who clasped his hands and begged with a jubilant and out of place innocent hope on his scruffy face. All three pairs of eyes were on him, silent, pleading, and waiting on tenterhooks for an answer, so he had no choice but to acquiesce.

"Oh, very well…" the angel conceded snappishly, "If only because I myself am rather curious to see how this will go. Human beings are certainly capricious, yet stubborn creatures. And it has been a while since I got to see a little of their resiliency and tenacity."

"YES!" the demon cried, leaping into the air and pumping a fist, "I KNEW there was still some fun in you, old chum! I knew it! Now! Shall we attend to the details of the deal?"

A flourish of a clawed hand in the air and a plume of flame and black smoke conjured yet another scroll in the demon's hand, but a simple one of white parchment and a golden rod ornamented with a holy crown of heaven on one end and a black jagged one of hell on the other. It drifted out into midair in front of the demon to make official the holy pact between the Underworld and the Kingdom of Angels, unfurled, and turned to face the mortals as a quill materialized from thin air and began to write of its own accord, recording the narration for every word.

"Firstly," the angel began in an authoritative voice, "Francis shall take the unoccupied body of Alfred. He shall live his earthly existence, assume his name, his form and to everyone he shall appear to be none other than the man himself. His task is to win the heart of one Arthur Kirkland once more, using any method he deems appropriate."

"Oh oh! And he should have the same amount of time to woo his dear Sir Arthur as he did the first time! Just so we're not sitting around bored. How long did it take to get little Art all nice and wrapped around your finger huh?" the demon asked.

Francis frowned, thinking back.

"Uh… I'm not sure… The better part of half a year or so?" he replied.

"Perfect! We're halfway through the year now, so you have until the clock tolls midnight, December thirty first, to get Arthur to…" the demon continued pausing as he thought and grinning wickedly as inspiration struck, "To get Arthur to say he LOVES you."

The pen inked the terms with flighty precision, and Francis nodded resolutely.

"_Bon_. And then what of afterward?" he posed firmly, "Am I to win his heart, only to break it again when I have to leave?"

It was the angel who answered immediately with a firm shake of his head as he pointed to the quill.

"No, of course not. No innocent souls shall be hurt because of this. Arthur shall not remember the incident afterward. No one will. To him, it will be as if he were only touched by your spirit in a dream, and we will ensure he is left with nothing but closure and happiness," he promised.

Relieved, Francis nodded and smiled as the list grew longer.

"And what about me? Don't I get to go back and help out and make sure my body's okay? It's kinda my body and all. And no offense Frankie, but you are gonna royally suck at being me without my help!" Alfred interjected.

A shudder wracked the form beside him, but the angel and demon regarded each other, shrugged, and gestured in unison to the fluttering pen.

"Sounds fair to me, Alfred gets to go, too!" the demon chorused.

"And you cannot tell anyone the truth about this bet. You must not tell anyone who you really are, what you must do, or the terms in any form. You must live as if you are truly Alfred or you will be instantly disqualified."

"Ohh good one. Oh, and we get to hang around to watch, too! And maybe intervene if needed."

"Agreed, and then at the end of six months we will convene again and compare our findings. Depending upon what we see…" the angel mused, looking down and meeting Francis' gaze pointedly, "We will grant you… A second chance."

The choice of words and the tone of his kind, controlled voice struck Francis, but he dared not question his judgment as the last lines of the contract were drawn and the pen struck two neat lines for signatures at the bottom. The angel swept his open palm toward the completed document and spread his wings, bowing cordially.

"Then our pact is complete, all we need is your consent."

Francis and Alfred turned to each other once more in unison. Alfred flashed him a grin that seemed to say, 'here goes nothing' with a thumbs up, and gestured toward the awaiting quill. Francis smirked and stepped forward to take it first, lifting his hand to the first welcoming line.

"Here goes nothing, indeed," he murmured as he gracefully signed his name in looping script that glowed bright gold.

He handed the pen off to Alfred who signed his own name underneath his in bold blocky print, complete with lopsided stars on either end. The moment he lifted the nib from off of the paper the pen vanished in a flash of light and smoke. The scroll snapped up and rolled back neatly around the rod before it too burst into a scatter of light and disappeared. Francis watched in awe, opening his mouth to inquire what would happen next, but before he could even form a coherent question he was overcome by a feeling of tipping backward by some unnatural force. The clouds opened up beneath him and a fierce wind whipped up from the chasm like ethereal hands to yank him backward and send him hurtling back down to earth. A tiny squeak emitted from his throat, but nothing more, and the last thing he saw before he plummeted into freefall was the grinning face of the demon as he waved coyly in farewell.

"Catch you on the flip side. Frankie…"

A gasp escaped his lips, which turned into a strangled scream, and Alfred craned over, eyes wide, as he watched the spirit topple into the open blue strata.

"Haha! Awesome! Wait for me, buddy!" he guffawed, and took a flying leap, canon ball style, through the portal in the clouds after him, "Geronimoooo!"

Alfred whooped and hollered with glee as he fell after a still screeching Francis who flipped and tumbled and watched in sheer terror as the ground rose to meet him. He recognized the verdant sprawl of Applewood once more, then more clearly the bustling downtown area, and lastly the distinctive towering medical plaza, which he swore he saw a black, mystical target emblazoned on top of before he plunged through the roof. Several floors of patient rooms he shot through as if he weren't even there, passing through insulation, air conditioning ducts, and the occasional body or two before finally, in the intensive care unit he zeroed in on the disturbingly peaceful form of Alfred in his hospital bed. His form showed no signs of stopping, or even slowing down, and as he rocketed on the collision course with the limp body of the bouncy younger man he crossed his arms protectively over his face. Francis felt the distinct sensation of a thrum of life in his chest and a breath of recycled air through a ventilator filling his lungs before he slammed into his new body and everything went black.

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And now we finally get to the goods! Francis has struck a deal, and he seems preeeeeetty confident in himself. But can he REALLY make it as Alfred? Really? Much less attempt to get past Arthur's prickly skin once again? Find out next time!


	5. An InBody Experience

**Author's Note: **Aksjhfka hello again! And welcome to a new chapter! I have to tell you though, I really kind of hate this one, but in the interest of forwarding the story and not leaving ya'll hanging too long, I am posting it anyhow :T So have a boring semi transitional chapter and then I promise PROMISE, we'll meet up with Arthur again in chapter 6! Also if you reviewed chapter 5 before and I accidentally deleted your review I'm sorry D: I noticed a mistake the first time around and reuploaded and I dunno if I wiped out any reviews :T Anyway, that said! Enjoy! c:

-Crow

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**Chapter 5**

_An In-Body Experience_

The darkness he experienced the second time was far different than the first, though not necessarily as pleasant. His body felt stony and leaden, his head ached, and instead of the bickering between immortal beings that had roused him the first time, his ears were filled with the barely audible sound of Matthew's very familiar and very tiny voice. Bleeps of the heart monitor and the rhythmic, almost soothing whoosh of the respirator punctuated it in cold medical staccato, but he could hear him in the weary, yet hopeful midst of reading through the complete collection of Grimm's Fairytales aloud loyally at his brother's bedside. His voice sounded exhausted and thin, like he had been reading for weeks on end in vain hopes that somehow, Alfred would respond. Though Francis knew Matthew to be far more pragmatic than that, and if what the demon had said about his condition was true, he already knew he was never expecting his brother to awaken. Still, the devotion was evident in the shaky retelling of The Tailor in Heaven that retained all the hope that he might one day see those bright blue eyes and hear that booming laughter again.

"_One very fine day it came to pass that the good God wished to enjoy himself in the heavenly garden, and took all the apostles and saints with him, so that no one stayed in heaven but Saint Peter_," he began with a heavy sigh, forcing himself to continue with the words in the book with as much enthusiasm and charm as Alfred had once read the very same tales to him as children, "_The Lord had commanded him to let no one in during his absence, so Peter stood by the door and kept watch. Before long some one knocked. Peter asked who was there, and what he wanted_."

Matthew cleared his throat and shifted up in his chair to amplify his voice and act out the parts once the dialogue came into play.

"'_I am a poor, honest tailor who prays for admission,' replied a smooth voice. 'Honest indeed,' said Peter, 'like the thief on the gallows! Thou hast been light-fingered and hast snipped folks' clothes away. Thou wilt not get into heaven. The Lord hath forbidden me to let any one in while he is out.'_," he read with a little more zeal and a tiny sorrowful laugh.

"This is so stupid. Sorry Al, I'm just not as good as you."

Overwhelming empathy for the unfortunate fictional tailor welled up in Francis as he slowly regained consciousness. Matthew grappled once again to find his voice, but in its stead a sudden very familiar, and much louder voice pierced the reverent quiet of the hospital room.

"Dude! This is a trip! I'm a freakin' ghost! Total out of body experience for sure! Oh hey, I remember that book! We used to act out the stories together when we were kids!" Alfred's voice sounded, then paused, "…Man I look like crap! Mattie does, too. Wonder how long he's been here? Poor guy, he needs to get out more!"

Francis did have to give him one thing. Matthew's voice had almost coaxed him to remain in a peaceful slumber. It was Alfred's that helped to clear the fog of coma and near death and bring his mind back to the surface.

"C'mon Frankie! Wake up already! You gotta see what I can do!" he cajoled.

That earsplitting laughter sounded again, surprising Francis that it was not followed by the sound of shattering glass, and he heard him twirl overhead to the other side of the bed.

"This is so totally cool! I can fly and pass through walls and no one can see or hear a thing! It's like watching a movie! Starring me! Bet this place has been full of drama and sobbing and everyone begging me to wake up. Oh hey, someone even brought fresh flowers! Wonder who they're from… One of my many sexy admirers I'm sure! Heh! Sunflowers, too!" Alfred chirped approvingly, though he paused and a hint of trepidation crept into his voice, "Wait a sec… Sunflowers…?"

Francis allowed him rabble on to himself as he focused on doing exactly what he had just been nagging him to do. Fingers twitched atop the coarse fibers of the cool blue hospital blanket. Lashes fluttered against cheeks flushing with color after the pallor of near death had lingered too long about them. Alfred let loose with a garbled scream of ire and finally, Francis felt his jolted spirit take hold of his new body and his throat close around the respirator as all of his slumbering neurons revved with life. He lurched weakly off the bed in protest, one hand lifting to remove the offending device, but he heard the book clatter to the ground, Matthew's panicked call of Alfred's name, then for the nurses outside, and all manner of alarms going off.

Returning to the Earthly realm was less of the beautifully romantic reawakening he had imagined, and more a frenzied blur of forced breathing, shouting, and hands on his body as the respirator was gently extricated from his throat and he gasped his first breath of air on his own. He coughed and choked for it, but forced his eyes to open to the chaos as baffled doctors and nurses alike checked his charts and his vitals. All he saw was the bright florescent lights above him, a flailing, translucent Alfred out of his peripherals swatting frantically at the cheery bouquet of sunflowers beside his bed, and finally Matthew's tear streaked face as he craned over him and cupped his hands tenderly around his face.

"Al? Oh my god, Al? Can you hear me? Alfred! Alfred, please! Say something! Alfred!" he begged.

Francis parted his lips, starting to call him by the French form of Matthew which had been his own pet name for his friend, until he heard the first syllable out of his throat in a painfully American voice that was distinctly not his own and halted himself immediately. It was only then he thought back to what Alfred had called him in their brief interactions and made sure to use the appropriate term of endearment for the frantic looking youth at his side.

"Ma… Mattie?" he managed to whisper in Alfred's muted voice with a smile, throat burning in protest of words after lying unused, but with genuine warmth.

Tears of joy poured down Matthew's cheeks as he threw himself with a cry against his chest, much to the chagrin of the baffled nurses and doctors attempting to discern just exactly how a comatose, nigh unto brain dead man could have simply woken up with no warning whatsoever. He murmured something incomprehensible through his relieved sobbing, Alfred continued to shriek and rant in the background, unheard by anyone but him, and Francis summoned all the meager strength left in his earthly form to comfort his sibling. He was able to run a hand messily through the younger Jones' wavy blonde hair before he was yanked away to the side and then laid back acceptingly to endure the torment of medical panic and curiosity. At least one person in the room knew the truth, and he was the only one who needed to.

For what seemed like an eternity the doctors shone flashlights in his eyes, took his blood pressure, and tested his reflexes. They removed the bandages from his head to inspect where the fractures once were, took copious blood samples and jabbed, prodded and felt in so many places Francis began to wonder if he hadn't died at all and was merely in yet another strange fetish club with his best friends after a few too many. Matthew remained anxiously at his bedside, ignoring the behests for him to leave and get some air or some coffee or anything but hover while they attended to him, but before long, there was nothing left to do but leave to confer and study the data. For all they could tell, it was as if Alfred had simply awoken from several months of peaceful, unexplained slumber, completely healed with not a sign of trauma to speak of. The stumped medical professionals appointed Matthew back to his sentinel position with a list of questions to ask him and slowly filed out one by one, scratching their heads and checking charts for the umpteenth time.

Matthew watched them go, reaching out to take Francis' hand and holding it protectively. Francis finally relaxed and sagged back into the hospital bed with a relieved sigh, only for Alfred's translucent and faintly glowing face to suddenly appear in his field of vision. His eyes went wide and he suppressed a yelp of fear, which came out as a strange choking squeak, garnering an unwanted frown of concern from Matthew who could not see the frenzied spirit of his brother currently gripping his own body by the shoulders.

"Oh thank God they're finally done molesting me! Listen Frankie, I need you to do me a solid and get up RIGHT now, and chuck these sunflowers out the window!" he commanded, pointing a finger at the offending bouquet.

Francis' eyes shifted over toward the sunny yellow flowers placed with obvious care in a glass vase and felt Matthew's grip on his hand tighten.

"Al? You okay? Should I call the doctors back?" he asked warily.

Before Francis could even devise a logical excuse Alfred leapt off of him and took a vicious flying roundhouse kick at the sunflowers again, only to have his leg pass harmlessly through them. He seethed in frustration as the blooms merely swayed pleasantly, as if tickled by a warm summer breeze, and floated above them with his fists balled and teeth gnashing.

"You'd better start freaking out right now, because if you were really me and you saw this, YOU WOULD BE FREAKING OUT ABOUT NOW!" he yowled.

Curious, Francis lifted his eyebrows and nearly began to ask why exactly the gift was so heinous when he heard Matthew whisper beside him again.

"Al?"

The fact that Matthew was still perched beside him had nearly completely slipped his mind. Not only that he nearly failed to respond his new name and remember that he really was supposed to be answering when addressed as such. He had almost entirely forgotten that now he truly was, in a sense, Matthew's older brother, his Al, Alfred F. Jones and that he was to play his part in his final performance, but after a moment of clarity he turned back and looked up into the worried blue eyes that mirrored his own, smiling comfortingly as he reached out a hand to caress his cheek.

"Sorry, Mattie," he apologized, shivering a little at the sound of Alfred's voice coming from his lips, "I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm totally fine. Better than fine, really. I promise. You really think something that stupid would be the end of me?"

Matthew seemed pleased at the added bit of Alfred flair he added at the end and threw his arms around his neck once more with a tearful chuckle.

"I shouldn't have but… God Al, I was so scared. I… I really, really thought I was never going to see you again," he breathed, "Thank God… Thank GOD you're okay. I-I can't believe you really came back. Th-They said…"

Alfred seemed to forget his crusade against the accursed sunflowers as Matthew trailed off, unable to say the words, and began to cry again. He frowned and drifted over to his brother's side, and Francis made sure to wrap his arms around him, hugging him close.

"Hey. Hey don't cry. Please don't cry. Believe it. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. How long was I out?" he inquired sleepily, despite knowing the answer full well.

Silence ensued in the wake of his question, as if Matthew was afraid to tell him, but eventually he whispered the reply mournfully into his neck.

"Two months, two weeks and three days."

Two months, two weeks, and three days of hell for Matthew, he was certain, and he was just as certain it had been even more of a living nightmare for his precious Arthur. His heart wrenched in his chest as a scant flash of his face illuminated his imagination, wondering where he was at that very moment, what he was thinking or doing, if by some mystical chance he was thinking of him, too. Francis could scarcely believe he had been delivered back unto the same plane of existence with him again after his harrowing journey between Heaven and Hell and that seeing him was once again only a matter of a phone call, rather that some impossible cosmic communication. Though actually seeing Arthur would have to wait until the shock of his reawakening had passed and he was freed from the confines of the hospital. Until then, all he could do was assume the role of big brother, one he often ascribed to himself anyway and more than happily performed for his sweet little friend.

"Holy hell…" Francis breathed, tensing and artfully feigning shock at the earth shattering news.

"I know…"

"That's a hell of a long time."

"I know…" Matthew continued, his tone lightening, "You owe me for all the terrible soaps I endured watching over you."

"Soaps? Really…?"

"And talk shows. The bad ones. The ones with paternity tests and drag queens. On the same show."

They pulled slightly away from each other in amusement, and their eyes met once more in the silent observance of the gravity of mortality and fragile, beautiful human life. Francis' heart, Alfred's heart, raced in his chest as Matthew's deep azure gaze seemed to scour his very soul, certain he would see past the shell of the body and into the true soul beneath. His lips moved, his irises flickered, and much to the Frenchman's surprise his lips cracked into a crooked smile. A snort of a giggle bubbled merrily from him, and Francis could not help but smile and join him as they both broke into relieved hilarity. Together they laughed, Matthew wiping his face and celebrating in the release of the grip of fear and worry that had choked him for months, and Francis sloughing off the awkwardness of stepping into a personality far beyond his own. He was certain he could do it. He had to, he reminded himself, for not only his own soul, but for the second half of it that still dwelled deep within the being of another.

"Were you here every day, then? For me?" Francis finally asked as the mirth died down, though he knew the answer already.

He had always been fond of Matthew for his quiet sweetness and dedication and needed not ask to know he had been his brother's guardian for the duration of his convalescence.

"Mmhmm. Of course I was. Francis-" he replied quietly, his voice breaking on the name he clearly still found difficult to say, "F-Francis gave me a paid leave of absence so I could stay with you and… Take care of things…"

The painful sound of his name made it all too obvious he was still mourning his death. It was oddly eerie, the first incident of seeing grief for him, but it served as a valuable reminder that he had entered a world that now lacked one fabulous Francis Bonnefoy. He wished dearly he could comfort him and let him know that everything would turn out for the better, or so he hoped, but the angel and demon's words as they drafted their contract rang in his head and he knew he would have to remain silent until the subject was breeched. Deciding to change the subject for both their sakes, as there was no way Alfred could know his brother's former employer was deceased, Francis glanced back at the sunflowers and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"That was decent of the guy. So then who brought the lovely flowers?" he asked.

Formerly a subdued and silent spectator, Alfred suddenly went rigid and leaned threateningly over his brother's shoulder.

"Don't go there, Frankie. Do not even go there!" he warned.

Matthew frowned and recoiled slightly, and Francis saw worry flash over his delicate face.

"Um… W-Well," he started, eyes flicking skittishly away.

At first Francis thought he seemed reluctant to name the criminal because he was concerned for Alfred's memory. The hard swallow, the hand through his hair, and the nervous little cough as he thought of how to gently break the news told him otherwise.

"I um… It was just… Okay, don't get mad at me. I know you don't like him, but Ivan was very worried about you so I let him in a few times during visiting hours and he brought a fresh bouquet for you every week. He really is very nice, I don't know why you hate him so much," he informed him sternly.

Alfred screeched again and covered his ears with his hands, floating up toward the ceiling as he snarled and spat.

"Ugh! Gross gross gross! I can't stand even hearing the freak's name! Mattie you traitor! I can't believe you let him into my room! When I was in a coma and couldn't even punch him in his big stupid commie nose no less!" he wailed, turning back to Francis with a venomous glare, "Okay you got your stupid answer, NOW will you freak out for me, PLEASE?"

As highly amused as he was, Francis found it so difficult not to laugh he had no choice but to finally comply and fully assume his new role. He rolled over and curled into a ball, growling much the same way Alfred had as he waved a hand dismissively at the flowers.

"You have got to be kidding me! Gross! Don't even say the freak's name!" he repeated, "And get those flowers the hell out of here! I can't believe you actually let him into my room, you traitor!"

Matthew appeared struck for a moment before he closed his eyes and sighed.

"But Al they're just-"

"I don't care! Get them outta here! Take them to the kids' ward, or a cute receptionist, or the morgue for all I care! I just don't want them in here!" Francis hissed petulantly.

"Right this second? But you-"

"Now!"

A beleaguered wince marred Matthew's face that looked to Francis he was suddenly wondering if he didn't like his brother better in a coma. At the very least, it seemed his acting was convincing enough. The younger blonde got up resentfully and shuffled over to the nightstand by the bed, then picked up the flowers with a half-hearted glare. Muttering something indiscernible under his breath, he apologized and promised to return soon and hurried out the door to dispose of the offending token. Alfred sighed loudly in relief and drifted down to perch on the edge of the bed while Francis sat up, a mischievous and salacious grin on his lips.

"Ivan, is it?" he purred suggestively once he was certain Matthew was out of earshot.

Alfred cringed as if a chill had suddenly run up his vaporous form.

"Shut up! It's not like that! He just owns the bar my old college buddies and I like to go to! That's all!" he protested, "Besides! You wake up in MY body and that's the first thing you got to say to me? Don't we have more important stuff to talk about?"

Ignoring the second comment, Francis was silent for a moment before he hooded his eyes and grinned.

"And yet he comes to your bedside so loyally, bringing you a symbol of his love, waiting so anxiously with bated breath for his sleeping beauty and his true love to awaken, to gaze into those eyes as blue as the sky and deep as the ocean so he can confess his eternal passion for you at last and seal it with a k-" he began in his usual sweepingly dramatic tone before Alfred groaned and cut him off.

"Dude, chill out with the fairytale romance shit! It sounds really freaky in my voice! I made out with the guy once when I was super hammered and we didn't even do the nasty! I don't think we did, at least. I don't remember much of…" Alfred pondered, looking ill before shaking his head to clear it, "Ugh… But anyway now he's gone all creepy stalker on me and I can't shake him off!"

Francis laughed brightly.

"I hardly call bringing you flowers when you are in the hospital being a stalker," he chortled.

"Yeah well you don't know the guy like I do. He's like seven feet tall and all Russian and morbid and disturbing and he NEVER takes off this scarf he's always wearing that one of his weirdo sisters gave him. Even in the summer! They came from Russia because they were all poor and miserable or whatever and life sucked but then they choose to open a seedy little bar? Who does that? I swear he's like part of the mafia or something. They're running drugs out of that place or arranging hits or- Or worse!" raved the American, gesturing wildly with his arms as he outlined the sins of his admirer which only solicited another smarmy grin from the French spirit inside his body on his own lips.

"For someone you claim to loathe you certainly know a lot about him," Francis teased again, much to Alfred's horror.

"I do hate him! He's a freak, probably some kind of rapist or murderer or something, I can't understand a word he says through that annoying accent, and he is always, ALWAYS smiling like he knows something I don't! Or like I have something on my face or I smell or something and he isn't gonna tell me and just enjoy it while he lets me make an ass of myself!" he continued virulently.

His fury and ranting were quite adorable, and rather familiar, Francis remarked fondly to himself as he laid back down into the hospital bed and closed his eyes in preparation for Matthew's imminent return.

"I bet he came in and gave you longing, loving kisses while you were asleep and looking so delightfully sweet and innocent…" he murmured smugly.

Alfred froze, jaw dropping open and gaping like a fish, and he screamed in sheer revulsion as he flung himself off the bed, babbling incoherently. He sailed through the air, vanished through the bathroom door and subsequently through the back wall, his wails echoing after him unheard by anyone but Francis as he sat up and watched him go. He laughed, but the slight motion caught his eye in the mirror on the wall and for the first time as he sat up and squinted his eyes against Alfred's terrible vision without his glasses he finally saw his face peering back at him from the polished glass. Granted, he was still pale and a bit gaunt, his cheeks sallow and his short, sandy blonde hair matted and mussed, but it was undoubtedly Alfred's ever-cheerful face he gazed back into. He looked down at his hands as well which were broader, rougher and lacking the familiar manicured nails and the light dusting of hair Arthur had always relentlessly teased him about and waggled the alien digits in wonder, missing the door creak open and footsteps reenter.

"Al?"

Francis was quicker to respond to his new name, and looked up with a casual, carefree grin.

"Yeah?" he chirped.

Matthew smiled sheepishly and skittered back to the chair beside the bed.

"I'm sorry," he whispered suddenly.

Genuinely confused, Francis raised a brow.

"Huh? Sorry? Sorry for what?"

"Sorry I let Ivan in, I should have known better and… Sorry I got mad at you for taking the flowers out. I-I gave them to the cute receptionist, like you said," he said miserably, hanging his head, "I-I was just… I've been so-"

Matthew could barely bring himself to finish as he fought off tears again and cupped a hand over his mouth.

"Hey… Hey what's wrong? Look I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have gotten so mad at you. It was just kind of a shock to wake up to, you know? And I'm fine, really! You heard the doctors, and I'm right here in front of you talking and even yelling! Everything's gonna be fine," Francis soothed, reaching out and taking his hand.

"I know, I know all that, it's just… After your accident… Francis, my boss at the bakery, you remember? He um… He was in a car accident and he… H-He died," Matthew choked.

The report of his own death rang cold and strange in his ears and his heart again, but the second time at least he could gasp in false shock and comfort him properly. It would be the first of many incidents, he was sure.

"Oh, Mattie… No… No, I'm so sorry," he breathed, squeezing his hand with very real sympathy.

"He was one of my best friends. The sweetest person who ever-" Matthew continued, his voice wrenching in his throat, "A-And the bakery was shut down until we all decided to reopen it in his memory, because he would have wanted it that way. B-But it's just not the same. No one comes anymore, we can't get to his recipes, and we're flat out just not as good as he was. Work has been miserable and on top of all that I thought I was going to lose you, too. And then I would have been alone…"

In that singular tragic moment, Francis realized the monumental task he had taken on at last. Matthew was reduced to tears again and he tugged him into bed with him and folded him into a powerful embrace, letting him release his sorrows against his chest. And he was only the first. So many lives remained where his death had left a gaping, aching hole. Not only Matthew, but Feliciano and Elizaveta at his bakery, Antonio and Gilbert, his family, everyone he had known and crafted his perfect, picturesque life with. His task to win back the heart of his beloved was only the beginning of the mire and maze he could see looming before him.

"Shhhh shhh. It's alright, Mattie. I'm here, you still have me, and I'm sure Francis would be proud as hell of you for trying to carry on his legacy," he said firmly.

"I hope so," Matthew responded meekly.

"I KNOW so," Francis replied with an ironic smirk, "And he wouldn't want you blubbering on like this over him. Especially not since you got your bro back! So come on, buck up, and you can tell me everything that happened while I was out."

Matthew lifted his head and looked into his eyes in wonder of his courageous sibling as a smile crept slowly across his face. A slight glow filled the corner of Francis' vision and he knew without even turning to look that Alfred had returned to hear the tale as well. In his always-quiet voice that never seemed to rise above a whisper, Matthew began from the beginning and recounted life in Applewood as it had occurred every day since the fateful night he had shuffled off the mortal coil. The two supernatural cohorts listened together, preparing themselves, and taking comfort in the simple narratives of the life they had both been absent from. Each had been granted the power to shape their own destiny and each waited anxiously like warriors around the briefing before the greatest battle of their lives. The real test was yet to come, for a wounded, grieving Arthur would be the fiercest foe to contend with, but both took comfort and pride in the fact that, at least for the moment, they seemed to have passed the first.

* * *

And survive his first test he has indeed! Matthew seems to buy it, but now he has a whole lifetime of friends and family to contend with, and he hasn't even seen his supposed soul mate yet. What will happen once he locks horns with an Arthur who is still reeling from his death? Probably should have included another line in the contract just in case he gets killed. Again…


	6. Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire

**Author's Note:** Hello again readers! It's that time once again! Time for another rousing chapter of 'Till Death Do Us Part, and one we have all been waiting for! Oh yes, good old bushy brows rears his ugly head again! Also, my apologies. This chapter is quite late because I was traipsing all about the state of California looking for work, but I am happy to report that I found it! I got a job, woohoo! Only problem is, my new place of employment will be in the Bay Area and I currently live in So Cal :T So now I will also be preparing to move 7 hours away and packing up my life, so the next update after this one maaaaay be a while off as well. :C But not to worry! This is a nice long and meaty chapter to chew on while I am busies so do enjoy! You can also now follow me on Twitter if you are so inclined! I'll be tweeting about useless crap as well as fic updates, so check out AGentlemanCrow if you are interested!

- Crow

* * *

**Chapter 6**

_Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire_

Francis, or rather Alfred, depending on whom was asked, was forced to endure another week in the hospital before his doctors would even consider releasing him, much to his dismay. He yearned to see Arthur again, to get straight to his ethereal mission and to planning just how he would go about the delicate issue of winning back his icy, stony heart. Yet he remained imprisoned in the drudgery of the hospital, still not knowing where his beloved was, how he was faring, and not even able to truly inquire. However, Matthew was still there every day to sneak in contraband treats and keep him company through the awful daytime television shows, endless tests and CAT scans. Unfortunately, Alfred also proved to be an obstinately loyal companion, particularly at night when they could converse freely with no one the wiser, as he didn't especially need anyone catching him appearing to be talking to himself when he was attempting to prove he had fully recovered from a catastrophic head injury. Eventually, however, after that torturous week the medical professionals were forced to concede that there was no more reason to keep him confined and gave the release orders at last.

Francis had practically leapt for joy, and nearly blown his cover by bursting into one of his favorite French folk songs in celebration and grabbing the nearest person into a gallant, impromptu waltz as he usually would have done. Matthew, as reserved and quiet as he usually was, practically did too. He moved a bag into Alfred's apartment, cleaned up for him, and even made sure to call Arthur on his behalf just to make doubly sure that his job at the editing firm would still be waiting for him upon his return. It was wholly unnecessary, but Francis said nothing and let him do what he needed to feel like he was taking care of him. As belligerent and testy as he could be, Francis knew Arthur to be a gentleman of honor and would never stoop so low as to bar him from employment after an accident; even as ridiculous and laughable an accident as it had been. Sure enough, though Matthew seemed relieved and surprised to hear it, once he had been released he was free to return to his job in the mailroom at the very same publishing firm where his beloved was chief editor.

Or rather, Alfred's job in the mailroom.

The self-admittedly vain Frenchman was forced to set aside his initial disdain for the mundane position and thank the forces of fate that Alfred just so happened to have worked for the same company as Arthur for many years. It would be an incredible advantage, not to mention a dearly needed bastion of sanity, to be able to see the man he loved every day. He could plan tiny hints, effortlessly flirt the way he once did with him, cast him those infamous smoldering glances, perhaps even get one of the furious slaps across the face that had won his heart the first time around, and fill his life once more with the electric atmosphere of their love. There was no way he could lose. Especially not with ample time to plot with Alfred.

The extra week in the hospital actually turned out to be rather the accidental boon. Alfred was able to fill him in on his life, his mannerisms, even his past in order to make occupying his existence just the slightest bit less miserable than it already had to be. More than that, somehow, in their scheming and collaboration and sometimes friction, they found they actually were more than capable of getting along. Alfred consented that Francis was more than just a snail sucking, wine guzzling, sexual deviant who only showered on alternate Tuesdays, and Francis admitted that Alfred was far more than a soda swilling, celebrity worshipping, willfully ignorant boor with a hero complex who subsisted solely on hamburgers and fries. Something profound, mystical, and spiritual connected them through their ordeal, and they could both feel it so viscerally they had no choice but to look at one another in an entirely different light. Though Francis would still never figure out how to get his new head of unruly sandy hair to behave. After enduring Alfred's laughter one too many times through his stay in the hospital and one final time the morning Matthew was to take him home he finally just threw in the towel, bid a farewell to vanity, and let the accursed cowlick have its wicked way. The Superman t-shirt and tattered jeans Matthew had brought for him to go home in, lovingly iterating he knew it was one of Alfred's favorite outfits out of the goodness of his heart, put the final nail in that coffin as well.

Mercifully, Matthew arrived right on time that glorious day, signed all the right papers, and at long last Francis ripped the hospital bracelet off his wrist, hoisted his duffle bag of meager belongings, and slid the rectangular glasses onto the bridge of his nose to step out into the world as Alfred F. Jones. He was immediately whisked away to his apartment, which, as he expected, was a veritable pig sty of dirty laundry, Alfred's X Box 360, Playstation 3, and Wii and every game he owned for every system piled in front of the television in a web of tangled cords, empty beer cans and all manner of fast food refuse. The younger Jones apologized profusely for not having cleaned up more, but Francis' only reaction was to shoot the spirit of Alfred floating near the ceiling a disbelieving glance in horror that this was the way his apartment looked after an attempted cleaning. Alfred just shrugged, and they all went about their delightfully ordinary business for the day, which was more of a relief than Francis expected after his dealings in the hereafter.

The rest of the day was spent with Matthew urging Francis onto the couch to continue to rest, movies, trying his best to ignore the offhanded, and frequent, often banal remarks from the true Alfred only he could hear, ending with a home cooked meal with the food Matthew had attentively stocked his kitchen with. After the usual round of late night talk shows and a bag of popcorn, Francis urged his sweet friend to go home and get some rest, as they were both direly in need of it. He was to be starting his job once again the following day and he was just going to go straight to bed, there was no need to hover and worry, he reasoned with him. Hesitant at first, it took surprisingly little insistence to get Matthew to agree and leave, but as he went the resigned, heartbroken look on his face almost made Francis call out for him to stay.

But he knew better. He had become a player in a supernatural love opera even he barely understood. Poor innocent Matthew need not become tangled in the sordid affairs of angels, demons, and wayward souls that had strayed from the path to eternity. It would be a grueling test of his heart and resolve, of that he had no doubt. The urge to throw his arms around Arthur, to kiss him, bid him the final farewell he deserved and tell him everything that had happened, to smile for him always, and not to mourn for him any longer would be almost too much to resist, but with some downright heroic cheering from Alfred as he prepared for bed he knew he had to have faith in his own words and his own end of the deal. His love could withstand anything and his task was embarrassingly simple; he just needed to find a way to prove it.

Easy for a couple of snarky supernatural beings and a grotesquely optimistic ghost to say.

Francis tried not to let his thoughts weigh on him as he slipped into Alfred's bed and burrowed under the covers, so instead as he closed his eyes and bid his boisterous spirit familiar goodnight, he turned his thoughts to Arthur for comfort. Emerald green eyes alight with confidence and infuriating smugness, his favorite loving insults in that charmingly uptight British vernacular he always reamed him with, and between the usual verbal sparring matches, quips and jabs, the tender little moments like falling asleep in front of the television with their fingers ever so loosely twined, a tender kiss in public behind an umbrella, newspaper, or any other convenient blockade, and the times they would just so happen to catch one another's eye and simply look, green and blue irises brimming with unspoken love felt so intensely for just a single moment in time before Arthur would finally smile for him ushered Francis into a peaceful sleep. The beautiful visions and memories continued through his dreams as the moon traversed her usual path across the sky and bowed to the majesty of the sun rising behind her.

The sovereign rays illuminated Applewood in brisk golden light that spilled through each and every window until it reached the bedroom of a soundly slumbering Francis. Warmth touched his eyelids and peaceful face, gently rousing him from his pleasant dreams and ushering him back into the realm of consciousness with a loving hand. A moment later his alarm clock went off, but needing just a moment to bask in the calm of the morning before the day as usual, Francis hit the snooze button and rolled over with a content sigh. He listened to the birds twittering outside in the trees and the morning traffic just starting to bustle in the streets. He breathed in the freshly washed scent of the bed linens and let the soothing symphony of apartment living in the morning complete his serenity. Such simple things were rather the extraordinary pleasures having lost his life and been sent back and he was more than glad to take a moment to appreciate the gift he had been given. Just the way he wanted to begin the morning of his greatest adventure.

"_Wait for me, Arthur. I'll make everything right for you, I promise_," he thought to himself with a smile.

Just a few more moments of tranquility and he would rise, shower and dress, make himself a hearty breakfast and strike back out into the heartbeat of life. Francis was ready, he was eager, and he was feeling once again confident in his ability to save his soul and bring a smile back to Arthur's face. He drew in a deep breath, turned back over, and waited for the gentle music of the alarm clock he had set to herald the start of his day.

"Goooooooood morning, Frankie! Today's the big day! Rise and shine, up and at 'em, lets rock and roll!" instead of violins and sweet angelic singing, Alfred's piercing voice shattered his reverie into a thousand nerve grating pieces.

Francis' eyes snapped wide open and stared straight into the beaming face of the owner of the offending voice not an inch away from his. A garbled yelp wrenched from his throat as he pitched backward and hurled himself over the bed in a tangle of limbs, blanket, and pajamas, and hit the ground hard on his back. He lay there, stunned, his legs akimbo in the air against the mattress, head spinning, as Alfred's translucent form drifted slowly overhead with a grin.

"Whoa careful there, pal! The old noggin is still sensitive after all! Don't wanna be screwing around with that!" he chirped, holding up a helpful finger.

Francis shot him a venomous glare as he gingerly hoisted himself up off the ground.

"It would help not to be roused like my bed is on fire or there is a homicidal maniac standing over me…" he grumbled.

"You were totally gonna go for the snooze again, I know it!" Alfred smugly lectured.

"But I still have plenty of-!" Francis started to protest, but stopped himself with a sigh, "No… No never mind. I'm up, I'm up. I'm going to get ready, I trust you can occupy yourself for a few minutes!"

Extricating himself carefully from the tangle of blankets, he replaced them as neatly as possible and excused himself to the bathroom with a flamboyant farewell flourish of his hand, leaving a dismayed ghost in his wake.

"W-Wait! Hold up, Frankie! Occupy myself? I can't even work the remote! What am I supposed to do? Haunt the TV?" he whined plaintively, though his ire was quickly replaced with curiosity.

"Can I do that…?" he wondered aloud, thumbing his chin and grinning, "Only one way to find out!"

Alfred cackled brightly and threw himself through the still closed door of his bedroom, leaving Francis in peace in the bathroom where, once again, he saw Alfred's reflection looking back at him in the vanity mirror. The lack of luscious sunbeam golden locks, attractively masculine stubble Arthur had relentlessly teased him about, and piercing blue eyes that saw beauty in everything gave him pause only a moment before a sly little smirk that was distinctly his own crossed those borrowed lips. With a toss of his messily cropped hair he proceeded to strip theatrically out of his pajamas. He did a few nude turns in front of the full-length mirror, admiring his new body and feeling more than a little scandalous for it. All in all, he had to admit Alfred was rather an attractive young man, and with a little of his debonair flair he just might make something of him yet. A wink and a kiss blown from his first two fingers ended his brief primping, and he promptly hopped into a warm, refreshing shower.

His new crown of unruly hair did what it wanted, as usual, and Francis begrudgingly allowed it. Instead he focused on cleanly shaving, though Alfred had nothing but a disposable razor and market brand shaving cream with which to make do. He grimly wondered if he could sneak in his usual brand of aftershave and face cream without arousing too much suspicion or ridicule from Alfred, but proceeded to perfectly coif himself to devastatingly handsome with the crude tools he had. He thought he had done rather the skilled job given the ridiculous instruments he had been forced to use, until he opened Alfred's closet and saw what he had to work with for the rest of his look. Nothing but tattered jeans, printed t-shirts, and a well-loved leather bomber jacket with a black fleece trim hung from the hangers. A desperate dive into his drawers produced nothing better, even a few things heinously worse, but ultimately Francis managed to scrap together a simple pin striped shirt and a pair of unused tan trousers he strongly suspected Arthur had purchased for him when they had been together.

Upon arriving back into the living room, tying a simple black tie he had miraculously unearthed from the pile of comic book character ties, neon colored atrocities with patterns that would offend even the colorblind, and gag ties meant only for drunken frat parties, he found the television set on and flickering ominously between the channels. Hearing his footfalls, Alfred's head popped abruptly up from the top of it, grinning with sheer childish delight.

"Check it out! I totally CAN haunt the TV! I've got some sort of weird freaky poltergeist connection with it or something. It's wicked cool! Watch, watch!" he announced.

His head plunged back down into the screen, and Francis allowed the unavoidable smirk of amusement to adorn his face. The television cycled through the various morning news programs, cartoons, and the obligatory banal talk garbage accompanied by Alfred's tinny commentary through the electronics consisting of a variety of quips along the lines of, "Boring!", "Lame!", "Gay!", "Seen it!" or snoring sounds.

"That's nice, Alfred," was all Francis gave him in dismissively amused reply.

Meanwhile, he searched the pantries for anything fit for human consumption for breakfast. After a long, exhaustive search, all he managed to unearth was some eggs and bread among the pop tarts, sugar cereal, and cinnamon rolls in their garish cartoon boxes. Grateful even to find that, Francis counted his blessings and rummaged through the remaining drawers and cupboards to find a pan or any other cooking implement he could fashion a meal with. Finally he extricated a battered old frying pan out of a bottom cabinet and put it on the stove, but the second most vital contraption to his usual morning routine seemed to be glaringly absent. Nowhere in his gutting of the kitchen did he uncover coffee, the coffee maker, or even anything to suggest Alfred was merely out.

"Okay," he started testily, rubbing his temples, "I'll forgive you your gluttony and these concentrated wads of artificial dyes and sugar you call breakfast, but at the very least don't you have any coffee?"

Alfred's head popped back out of the television, brow furrowed.

"Coffee? What? Are you kidding me? The stuff's nasty! And why would you make it, anyway, when you can get it at any fast food place you want?" he asked.

Francis felt a headache already creeping insidiously through his brain, and he hadn't even tangled with Arthur yet.

"They sell coffee… At fast food places…?" he groaned in disgust.

"'Course they do!" came the all too quick response, "Mattie always gets it when we have McDonald's breakfast! It's pretty good from what I hear! Sheesh Frankie, I know you're French and all, but they have McDonald's in France!"

A boisterous, teasing laugh erupted from the spirit, not alleviating the tense pounding in his skull in the slightest.

"I KNOW they do! But unlike some people I refuse to eat that garbage," Francis retorted, opening the refrigerator in desperation.

A fresh carton of milk sat in the door rack alongside some orange juice, but otherwise the entirety of the chilled compartment veiled in wispy condensation was filled with brand new boxes of every flavor of soda imaginable, lunchmeats, and instant meals.

"If you're that desperate for a caffeine fix I probably have a Rockstar or two left in there! Now there's a morning pick me up!" Alfred piped helpfully.

"Rockstar? Seriously? You mean those hideous energy drinks?" Francis queried before he spotted the very logo of the aforementioned drink.

An entire box sat complacently on the shelf with a tiny post-it note in Matthew's delicate writing tacked to the front that read, "_I still think these are terrible for you_." Francis and the inanimate box engaged in a brutal staring contest for several moments, and then he slammed the door shut with brutal finality.

"That does it, we are leaving now, and we are stopping in a café on the way to work for a proper breakfast," he announced and promptly hurled everything he had already hauled out back into their respective drawers.

"Huh? Already? But I just got this thing really cookin'! I think I'm picking up HBO!" Alfred mourned as he drifted up from the television.

"NOW."

"Awww…"

The loud jabbering interspersed with explosions of the cartoon Alfred had been watching suddenly clicked off as Francis picked up his car keys and darted out the door. All he wanted was to see Arthur again and if death had not quite stopped him from doing so, then breakfast most certainly would not be allowed the satisfaction. Alfred's rusted old jalopy of a pick-up truck parked haphazardly in his spot nearly succeeded where pop tarts had failed. Francis mustered the courage to board the creaking contraption and after a few twists of the key and desperate gasps of the engine was finally on his way to his new place of employment with a still thoroughly amused ghost in the passenger seat toying with the radio and the air conditioner. Though as he had promised, he stormed a local coffee shop he knew well with a look on his face that seemed to seethe, "_Relinquish a café au lait and a croissant immediately on penalty of death, which is really not at all pleasant let me tell you_ _because I would know_," without actually saying as much and terrifying the poor barista as he approached the counter. Coffee and satisfactory breakfast in hand, he got back in the car, ignored Alfred's jests about his gourmet palette, and trekked the last leg through downtown Applewood to the office.

Arthur just so happened to be Executive Editor of the American branch of England's premiere publisher of children's books and novels for young adults; Sabrehaven Publishing. He had been transferred some years prior, which is why he had been forced to move to America in the first place under the guise of a promotion. Arthur had initially loathed everything about his new job and his new home, but Francis remembered with fondness the way they had always joked if Arthur had stayed cooped up in London and not agreed to take a risk and move across the Atlantic and if he hadn't decided America was direly in need of a little culinary wake up call and a little touch of French fabulousness, they never would have met. Neither would have dared to cross the tiny little channel that would have separated them in their home countries for eternity. Serendipity in its finest hour.

Francis pulled into the parking lot of Sabrehaven Publishing with tender memories in his heart and a renewed smile on his face as he parked in the spot Alfred instructed him to and struck off toward the employee entrance of the towering, whimsical building. Every inch of the place looked straight out of one of the fantasy novels they purveyed. Painted in bright colors with fantastical decorations, chandeliers, tapestries on the walls and suits of armor guarding entrances, it also sported larger than life statues of some of the company's most memorable characters, including a mischievous gang of gnomes, a noble unicorn, and even a bright green, winged rabbit. Francis knew the place very well after visiting his workaholic beloved after hours quite often, and even more than returning to the plane of the living, returning to the place where Arthur worked diligently to fulfill his passion felt fathoms more like coming home.

In a more observant moment than usual, Alfred noticed the sweet, genuine smile on Francis' lips and the faraway look in his eyes as they walked through the parking lot and grinned as he glided backwards a few inches above the pavement beside him.

"You look happier to be here than you have in a while," he noted.

It took Francis a moment to realize he was being spoken to, but he snapped out of his reverie with an almost sheepish laugh.

"I just… I loved it here. Almost as much as Arthur does. I'd come here to be with him all the time because he was practically having an affair with his job. He'd forget to eat, so I'd bring him something from my bakery I made myself, or some tea, or if he was having a bad day I'd give him a shoulder massage, keep him company while he burned the midnight oil, anything he needed!" he responded, a slight blush creeping over his cheeks, "But… Mostly I loved to be with him here because he was so happy. The way he would light up when he showed me the books they were working with, the art, the stories. It was beautiful."

The faraway, longingly devoted gaze washed back over Francis' face with a mournful sigh.

"At least I'll get to see that, one last time," he whispered.

Alfred winced in sympathy, but swiftly replaced it with his usual bright smile and infectious optimism for the sake of his new friend.

"Definitely, and we'll make sure Artie's smiling until the day he can see you again! I know it!" he declared, pumping a fist into the air.

A crooked smile found its way back to Francis' lips and he nodded with confidence. If nothing else, he would do everything in his power to make Arthur happy once more.

"Yeah… Yeah we will," he agreed, and continued toward the office with a little more purpose in his step.

"That's the spirit! So then what's the plan of attack for today, Frankie? I mean we got all the basics down, but now it's show time, day one, the big opening pitch! Clearly you're none too happy being me, and I gotta say Artie ain't real fond of me at the moment either. Gonna be tough getting a word in edgewise without sending him into full blown destroy mode," he asked mirthfully.

"Ah, funny you should ask, because it is so simple even you will understand, my friend!" Francis began with a confident smile and an elegant twist of a hand, "The angel and the demon, they made a bet that Arthur would fall in love with ME once again, no?"

Alfred nodded, eyes wide in concentration and awe as he listened in rapture.

"So, you have been in a coma for several months, have you not? What better time than that to turn over a new leaf? As they say? To awaken with a renewed sense of life and purpose and to make amends with the one you hurt the most!" he continued merrily.

The gleam of enlightenment flickered in his translucent companion's eyes and he smirked with unholy thrill.

"Ohhhh, I get it! So you're gonna be like new and improved Alfred! By acting like Frankie! Niiiiice. That's pretty slick!"

"I thought so," Francis replied, pleased, "I can still be myself whilst imprisoned in your body, and I have the perfect excuse for my behavior! I suppose the demon really was right about this being the perfect solution. I'll be passing through the pearly gates and strumming my harp and flying laps around heaven before you know it!" he laughed, closing his eyes and thumbing his chin, then adding as an afterthought with a playful wink, "And I'm not as displeased to be you as you think, by the way."

A gentler sort of smile replaced the devious one on Alfred's face as they passed through the hissing automatic doors into the busy lobby and Francis could no longer speak.

"Told you no one could resist this hotness," he commented warmly as the last word, and Francis hit the button to descend the elevator to the mailroom in the basement.

Francis rolled his eyes with a private smirk, drew in a deep breath, and stepped inside the elevator. He entered in the code to take him down to the bottom floors reserved only for employees with Alfred's assistance, and braced himself for the first day of his new life as Alfred F. Jones as it plummeted down into unknown depths and the first real step to finally seeing Arthur again.

The mailroom turned out to be less of a horrifying pit of drudgery and monotony than Hollywood movies and Francis' imagination had painted it to be. A neat, clean, and organized place with tightly packed cubbies, whooshing air tubes and merrily clacking canvas carts, it was run in Alfred's absence by his gaggle of colorful coworkers, all of whom looked genuinely happy to see him once he entered. A young man with short brown hair and gentle blue eyes leapt up immediately to give Francis a relieved hug. Toris, an old friend and college roommate, as Alfred informed him with a note of affection. He was quickly followed by a taller, boisterous man who crushed him against his chest and noisily purported to be the one who had missed him the most and been the one who said he would come back all along. The third coworker in the room with curly dark hair, an expression of a man who hadn't had a wink of sleep in a week, and a workstation covered in all things feline rolled his eyes quietly in the background, got up, and offered Francis a casual handshake in welcome. Sadiq and Heracles, Alfred added informatively after Francis awkwardly stumbled on names and they immediately began bickering. He returned all their sentiments with gratitude and joy and after the obligatory blow by blow of his gruesome ordeal in the hospital, glorified and embellished to the highest degree to sate morbid curiosities, there was no more time to spare for slacking.

Everyone got promptly to work after welcoming their fallen comrade back properly and so too did Francis; with Alfred's frenetic coaching. He guided him, or rather attempted to guide him, as they went on how to address various internal communications, where each of the tubes went and how to sort the piles of envelopes, packages, and cartons that poured in from the delivery rooms. Francis found it to be not unlike a well-oiled kitchen routine, the processes of which he was intimately familiar, and managed to fall into the swing of their operations with ease. He thought the training would busy him long enough to avoid boredom and the return of the dull ache in his chest whenever he thought about Arthur. Fate once again took glee in proving him grossly erroneous. As he found himself looking frequently at the clock, once a spare moment came his way he inquired of the ghost perched above his workstation just exactly when he would be able to make his delivery rounds.

Alfred thought back a moment, and then cheerfully replied that the executive floor where Arthur's office was located usually got mail in the late afternoons.

Francis nearly collapsed right on the spot. Afternoon. He would have to wait until afternoon to enact his master plan. He would have to go about nearly his whole day, waiting, yearning, and knowing his beloved was in the same building yet petty schedules and masonry would still separate them. Alfred managed to intervene with a few reassuring and comforting words before Francis had an infamous moment of theatric drama and drew unwanted attention, but even as he scowled and pouted and knuckled back down he still cursed the forces of the universe in eloquently scathing French in his head. It was all he could do to stomach the thought of having to dine with his new coworkers at lunch, make small talk, and try not to look expectantly at the door for Arthur to walk in. Arthur very rarely ate in the cafeteria, if at all, that much he knew for a fact. He much preferred to take his meals and afternoon tea in the privacy of his own office, unless of course Francis himself had descended with a bottle of wine and a proper course.

No more could he surprise his prickly love with culinary delights with a side of loving teasing at lunch or dinner without completely blowing it, and so he would have steel his patience and will and wait until his appointed hour. Instead of watching the hellish red second hand march its jerkily mocking parade around the indifference clock face, Francis decided to plan what he would say once he could finally look into those bewitching emerald irises once more; lest he lose his heart and his wit all over again and ruin his crusade before it even began. Only Arthur had ever possessed the power to make his flawless charm falter and his winsome wiles crash and burn into flushed cheeks, rage, and a unique racing of his heart in his chest he still failed to conjure words to describe.

The rest of the day passed in that frustrated monotony with Alfred amusing himself with his new spiritual touch on the world and Francis drifting in and out of reality and his imaginary reunion scenarios, pausing ever so often to assure Toris or Sadiq that he was quite alright. He took lunch with them and made a heroic effort to be bubbly and boisterous, but all the while watching the clock and waiting for the afternoon. The cosmic game could only really begin once all the players were on the proverbial board and the sands had already been slipping through his mortal hourglass counting his borrowed time on Earth for a week. The hours ticked by at their own disinterested pace, Francis went back to work, and finally began loading his mail cart to make the afternoon deliveries.

Envelopes addressed to Arthur Kirkland passed through his hands, his fingers brushing reverently over the letters of his name as he set them aside to lay on the very top of all the rest of the piles of mail that mattered not at all. One step closer. Francis piled parcels and folders and packages into his canvas receptacle as if arming himself for war. Alfred drifted close to his side to direct him to the service elevators, and finally, he wheeled his cart out of the mailroom and onto the battlefield. He needed no reminder as to what floor Arthur's office was on, and held his breath as he ascended the towering skyscraper to the executive level.

Cheerful music floated into the pleasant little lobby of the executive suites as he passed through on his way to Arthur's office. He greeted a few of the passersby he recognized with a smile and a cordial wave, but his feet marched with purpose along their old familiar path over the plush carpet. Down the hall past the entryway with the sentinel bronze of Sabrehaven's collective of colorful characters. A slight right at the fork, and down one last hallway into the main office where all of the executive officers conducted their business. It consisted of a ring of private offices corralling an airy, open area beneath crystalline skylights and rimmed in tasteful foliage where they could meet with the second tier of command seated around communal desks and larger cubicles. Arthur's office was up on the second level, right hand side, third door down. Francis could have walked there with his eyes closed.

It was a trip he had made countless times before, but never with his cheeks burning and his heart racing quite so hard. Arthur's door was just visible from the entryway to the executive suite, and he stood, watching as if gazing into a dragon's den and readying his trusty blade for combat. Alfred drifted overhead, twisted upside down and grinned a gleeful Cheshire grin.

"Ready?" he asked.

Francis merely nodded, drew in a deep breath, and tightened his grip on the mail cart. He was as ready as he ever would be. The second major test of his quest loomed, dark and ominous, and he gathered all of his wit, courage, and resolve to shove the cart again and take the first step down the hall and to certain doom or salvation. The first door whizzed past him without a second thought. The second came soon afterward with a clearer view of the largest obstacle that could potentially ruin every meticulous calculation and scripted conversation he had come up with; the desk of Arthur's personal secretary situated immovably in front of the door to his sacred sanctum that no one entered without his permission. Nothing he had not successfully conquered before, even when Arthur had left explicit instructions to allow no one in, so Francis approached the gatekeeper with confidence; a slender, decidedly distracted young blonde seated with legs alluringly crossed in a pleated pink miniskirt, matching vest and tie, and snappy satin pumps. It was a sight Francis was very accustomed to seeing, and one that brought an inevitable grin to his face as he wheeled his mail cart to the side of the desk and leaned over the handle rakishly.

"Afternoon, Feliks!" he called brightly.

Feliks started, looked up from filing his nails after a rousing round of solitaire on his computer, and gasped in delight as recognition flickered in his green eyes.

"Alfred!" he replied with a grin, "It's like, so totally awesome to see you again! We all thought you were for sure, yanno… D-E-A-D."

The young man in women's clothes cupped a hand over his mouth and spelled the word as if he dared not speak it, and Francis laughed. He had always been fond of Arthur's personal secretary, even if the Brit quite frequently wanted to wring his neck.

"Nope, alive and well as you can see!" he answered enthusiastically, patting himself down, "And apparently in one piece!"

Feliks snickered and twirled a finger into his hair.

"Killer! You totes have to lay out all the dirty laundry for me sometime. I bet it was all like, Days of Our Lives drama and junk!" he speculated.

"You don't know how right you are, Feliks. Really," Francis replied with an ironic smirk as he picked up the bundle of Arthur's mail, "Sometime we'll catch up, but I have Arth- I mean, Artie's mail right here for him!"

If Feliks noticed the correction, he took no note of it, and picked his nail file back up to continue preening where he had left off.

"Great! Just leave it in the usual spot and I'll get it to him later. He's in like, the foulest of moods today, I swear to God. Don't tell me men don't PMS. Ever since his boyfriend died he's been a royal pain in the- Oh shit! You tooootally didn't hear that from me, okay?" Feliks hissed to himself until he realized what he had said, clapping hand over his mouth and waving the other frantically in the air.

Francis's chest ached dully once more, but he managed a small, understanding smile.

"Don't worry. I heard," he affirmed sadly.

"What a relief! I don't need him riding my ass for anything more than he usually does, you dig?"

"I quite do. So then, I shall simply hand over his mail personally!" Francis announced.

The color drained visibly from Feliks' cheeks and his jaw dropped open.

"Whoa whoa, hold the phone! Like, rewind! You want to do WHAT? He NEVER lets you deliver the mail right to his office!" he spluttered.

"You said it yourself! He's in a bad mood, he's already annoyed with you, so I'll hand off his mail! I'd really like to thank him myself for giving me my job back, anyway. I do owe him," replied Francis with all the suave coolness of a fox on the prowl he had mastered in his previous life.

Feliks still bore an expression that looked as if Francis had just told him he was going to skip rope in traffic or go for a little swim in shark infested waters. He stared for a moment, but then scoffed with a smirk and pulled a bottle of pink nail polish out of a large collection in his desk.

"Tch. Your funeral, boyfriend," he muttered amusedly.

"Already had one, thanks," Francis quipped under his breath as he breezed past.

"Hmmm?" Feliks murmured, distracted.

"Nothing! Have a lovel- Er, catch you later, Feliks!" came the flippant reply.

Feliks waved farewell with the nail polish brush, and Francis stepped past his desk, the final barrier, and approached Arthur's door at last.

His fingers tightened on the bundle of letters and his throat tightened as he walked slowly toward the door painted with the words, "_Arthur Kirkland – Executive Editor_" in fancy gilded script. It seemed an entire lifetime ago he had last stepped through that portal and into a realm of love, life, and happiness. He had been to hell and back, quite literally, and yet, it was so unfeasible that beyond a simple crimson plank of wood his love, his Arthur sat, the key to his salvation and the master of his fate. All he need do was open it. But he froze, petrified. One glimpse of Arthur and he knew he would come undone. Francis would take over and he was certain a gaping, flaming chasm would open up beneath his feet to drag him to Hell without so much as a 'thanks for playing!'.

Alfred saw the hesitation on his own face and the tremor in Francis' hand as he grappled with the gravity of the beast that lay in the den beyond. He sailed overhead, landing in a bold pose beside the door, and balled his fists determinedly.

"Come on, Frankie! Don't pussy out now! We talked about this! We practiced! It's just Arthur! YOUR Arthur! Now, do you want to turn around and admit defeat and take the plunge DOWNSTAIRS with demons shoving pitchforks up your ass for eternity? Or do you want to be the ultimate badass and march in there like the Frankie I know and knock this one out of the park?" he proclaimed.

Francis regarded his spectral companion blankly as he railed at him, and remembered at last to breathe. Alfred was very right. He had endured too much, put too much at stake, and come too far to fail right at the moment of truth. Mustering all his faith and all his courage in himself, Francis nodded and marched up to Arthur's door. He grasped the silver handle in his fingers like a weapon, set his jaw, and twisted the knob soundlessly until the latch clicked free.

The door slid open with reverent silence and broke the final obstacle that stood between him and the other half of his soul. Arthur himself was sitting at his desk like a reclusive faerie king, lit from behind only by dimly in the slatted light of his drawn blinds with his chin in one hand, trusty red pen in the other, and his thick brows furrowed in concentration as he read distractedly through the latest edits on a manuscript. Gone was the usual bright glint of genius in his lively, fiery green eyes as he tore into a raw story and crafted it into a masterpiece. His face, too, seemed wan and pinched, but in a tragic, tired way rather than his usual volatile temper. Sorrow and darkness clung to him and weighed his shoulders and aged his beautiful face far beyond his years. A task that had once brought him joy now looked as if it were sheer agony to complete, and Francis immediately quelled the intense desire to announce his presence, flounce in and wrap him in a big, boisterous hug and kiss his troubles away as he always had.

Instead, all he could do was knock politely and at least shatter the spell despair had cast upon him. The sound did not cause him to look up. Rather his fist clenched over his manuscript, the muscles in his jaw tensed visibly, and he bore his teeth furiously in a vicious growl.

"Bloody hell Feliks, I thought I told you-!" he began, looking up and stopping the moment his flashing green eyes met kind, calm blue.

He paused a moment, as if he didn't recognize the young, bespectacled man in his doorway with a bundle of mail in his outstretched hand and a sunny smile on his face. Francis could see his breath catch in his chest, as if he had seen something he should not have, but he quickly recovered, cleared his throat and straightened himself up with dignity and propriety.

"Oh… Alfred. My apologies. I thought it was that daft little dingbat of a secretary they insist upon forcing me to endure," he muttered, slumping back in his chair and rubbing his temples wearily.

"No worries, happens all the time," Francis assured him kindly, taking another step inside.

"What can I do for you?" Arthur continued conversationally with a forced pleasant smile that was painful to watch.

Lifting the bundle of mail again pointedly, Francis cautiously approached his desk.

"Got your mail here for you. I know I usually leave it with Feliks, but I kinda just wanted to say thank you in person, you know? For letting me come back to work?" he offered, forcing himself to breathe evenly and calm his heart to remember to speak like Alfred and keep his distance.

Arthur's brows raised, and a lopsided, more genuine smile took the place of the previous one on his face.

"Thank me? There's really no need for that. It was the right thing to do. I know I have a ruthless reputation, but that's only when it comes to grammar and storytelling. Not clerical matters. As long as you're not a sensitive young author with a terrible book you're feebly trying to get published there's no reason at all to fear me," Arthur laughed softly.

The sound was so small, but warm and sadly genuine, tears pricked at the corners of Francis' eyes and an inexplicable warmth blossomed in his chest.

"Well I'm definitely not that. And definitely not afraid of you. Thank you, Arthur," he breathed, hiding the hitch in his voice, "Thank you so much."

Arthur blinked and frowned slightly at the strange tone and the weight of the seemingly simple, banal little words, especially coming from someone he had not been on particularly friendly terms with. He held out his hand, even as he recoiled back into his chair, and did his best to continue smiling and keep the meeting brief and pleasant.

"Um, you're welcome. I'll just… Take my post now so you can get back to work. Mustn't dawdle on our first day back," he said briskly.

Francis stared in horror at the hand he had so often held, so often kissed, and so often caressed his body and knew he could not bear to leave just yet. Handing off the mail would mean the end of their meeting. The end of Arthur until the lonely day had passed, the sun had set, and he had spent the night alone with nothing but memories only freshened into scathingly painful detail now that he had seen him again, heard his voice, smelled the aroma of old books and ink in his office that followed him coyly home.

"Wait, just one more thing," he cut in smoothly.

"Yes?" Arthur intoned, a hint of irritation bleeding into his voice.

"Allow me the honor of thanking you properly," Francis breathed lovingly, his mind whirring, searching for something, anything to stay near him even just one moment more.

Unfortunately, it had quite the opposite effect. Arthur straightened up and leaned back, lips pressed into an unamused line.

"Beg pardon?"

Francis gasped, realizing far too late just how much like charming, flirtatious Francis and not brash, overbearingly friendly Alfred he had sounded and shook his head, laughing nervously.

"No no, I-! That came out badly! I only meant that I want to do something more than just thanks! An innocent gesture of gratitude!" he hurriedly corrected.

Beguiling jade green eyes that only ever saw the truth according to Arthur narrowed suspiciously.

"Such as?"

"I er, well-!"

"Caaaareful, Frankie. Total Artie meltdown in ten, nine, eight…" Alfred warned from somewhere overhead.

Francis hazarded an annoyed glance up toward the ceiling, but quickly redirected his gaze to Arthur's crossly expectant face still glaring at him.

"Ahah, well," he began again with a radiant smile, "How about you let me buy you a round of drinks after work?"

It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Arthur loved to drink, perhaps a little too much. It would provide them a quiet, intimate setting in which to chat, catch up, and rekindle the flame of affection that had once begun life as a sudden flash fire. Alcohol would loosen the senses, inhibitions, and Francis would be free to work his romantic magic once again. Arthur, however, was not so inclined to go along with the program or believe in its virtue.

"Drinks? Drinks? Are you joking? You really have to be pulling my leg right now, because even YOU are not stupid enough to ask me out for drinks!" he exploded vehemently, cheeks flushing.

Flabbergasted, Francis' jaw dropped and he took a step back.

"What? Wait no! Calm down! Wait a second here! I didn't mean it that way either! Honestly!" he rapidly defended himself, still smiling, "C-Can we talk about this for just one minute?"

"We may not! I know exactly what you're doing! What in the hell was I supposed to think? You breeze in here uninvited with your smug little grin, all thanks and pleasantries and expect me to just roll over and agree to go out with you again? I see not even a traumatic BRAIN injury is enough to change you, Alfred F. Jones," the Brit spat, circling his desk and stalking toward Francis with murder in his eyes.

"God, I hate it when he uses my full name! What, like I'm twelve or something?" Alfred groaned.

Francis scowled and bit back a comment about not acting like a twelve year old if he didn't want to be treated like one, and continued his slow, backward retreat.

"No really, I swear! My intent is nothing but noble! I just want to go out as friends!" he insisted.

"And what makes you think we're even friends?" Arthur retorted nastily.

"Because! Arthur, I care about you! Deeply! I know that we are no longer- Uh, I mean, I know we're not together anymore and all, and I was a complete ass before, but I still care! I appreciate what you did for me, and I would never try to use it to manipulate you!" Francis continued passionately.

Arthur paused, but said nothing, cocking his head and soliciting further explanation. Francis smiled his best, most charming, soothing and disarming smile he could, and spoke gently to his riled beloved.

"I know how much Francis meant to you, too. I would never try to take advantage after what happened."

He rued the words the instant they left his mouth. Arthur froze and all the life drained in one gruesome moment out of his very form as if he had plunged a cold knife straight through his heart. He recovered quickly, and darkness clouded over his eyes as he looked away in stony fury.

"Get out," Arthur snarled in a chilling deadpan.

"Damn it all. Wait, Arthur, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"I said get out! Get out of my office this instant!" he barked, not even allowing Francis to finish.

"But I only meant-!"

"I don't give a damn what you think you meant! Your so-called "noble" intentions are EVER so clear to me now! Get out before I MAKE you get out!"

"Arthur please, please just listen! I can explain! It's kind of a funny story, really!" Francis continued to plead as Arthur continued to back him step by step out of the office.

"Are you deaf AND an idiot? Get out! Get the hell out of my office and my life and don't ever show your face around me again!"

Arthur's threats when they fought had always been grandiose and severe, yet in that very moment, that threat in particular cut straight through Francis' very soul. He could almost hear the demon already cheering in victory along with the angel who never wanted him in the first place and feel the flames of hell licking hungrily at his ankles.

"I-Isn't that just the slightest bit harsh?" he spluttered.

"Harsh? HARSH? I'll tell you what's harsh! Harsh is you traipsing into my office on your first day back, not even having the sense to wait a few days for your sordid little seduction, disobeying explicit orders you have until now faithfully followed, and bringing up my DEAD partner in hopes to charm me out on a sodding DATE with you!"

"No, I didn't! I would never-! I'm not that-!"

"How DARE you. How dare you, Alfred! This is low, even for you! Of all the slimy, underhanded, sleazy things you have ever done, this is the slimiest, sleaziest, and most underhanded of them all!" Arthur seethed, "You ABANDONED me. And you do not get to be my fucking hero now!"

Francis backed out the door, past a horrified Feliks' desk where he had ducked for cover, and collided sharply with the mail cart. He reached out and gripped it for some bastion of safety, and pressed against it as he continued down the hall and to the small flight of stairs leading up to the second level of the executive suite.

"Arthur, you don't understand! Just listen to me! Please!" Francis begged, closing his eyes for a moment and screaming his true thoughts inside his head, "_Please, mon petit lapin, mon amour, please hear me!"_

Inclined toward the occult and stories of old magic as Francis always knew his love to be, Arthur was tragically most certainly not a telepath and far too stubborn to ever forget a grudge. His rage blazed on unmitigated as he delivered the final blow.

"Not on your life, you rat bastard! For all I care, you can crack your thick skull open again and rot… In… HELL!"

Arthur punctuated each venomous syllable with a jab of his finger into Francis' chest, ending with one last hateful shove. Francis slammed hard into the edge of the mail cart, the front wheel tipped over the first step, and it buckled just enough to scoop him up cordially as he fell with it. He crashed into the cart with a flurry of envelopes and a strangled yelp and rode the nightmarish few stairs down in a jolting, bouncing, out of control ride that ended only when he slammed into a nearby cubicle and was dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. He heard Arthur's furious footfalls retreat to his office and the door slam shut on his hopes, and he sunk miserably into the pile of mail fluttering down upon him in a mocking flurry.

"Dude! Dude! Are you okay? Dude! Buddy! Pal! Compadre! Speak to me Frankie!" Alfred wailed in the wake of chaos, but Francis preferred to stay hidden in his pile of paper for the time being.

"O-M-G. That was like, the gnarliest thing I have ever seen! Are you seriously okay?" Feliks' concerned voice commented shortly afterward, followed by a chorus of other workers who had come to see the scene of the crime.

Francis heaved a sigh, and glanced up into the score of faces gathered above him.

"I'm fine, Feliks. Don't worry about me. Believe me, I've had much, MUCH worse," he muttered flatly.

"Dude, you don't like, ask a guy out when their boyfriend of like a million years just died. That was pretty damn ballsy!" he laughed, "You're lucky this is all you got!"

"Tell me about it," Francis replied and closed his eyes again.

He supposed eventually he would have to move. Everyone would begin to worry, especially over someone who had just gotten out of the hospital, and he was in no mood to cope. On the other hand, being dead had a strange way of making social conventions seem quite inconsequential. For the moment he could lie there, defeated, a great titan of love who had finally met his match all over again, and wonder if he would ever see the famed pearly gates of heaven once his time ran out.

* * *

Aaaaand those of you who predicted Francis would end this chapter physically assaulted by Arthur give yourself ten points! Haha! He should have known better, that one. Sheesh. Now what is he to do after Arthur has spurned him so? … Back to the drawing board I suppose. Stay tuned for next time! And if you got this far and have enjoyed this little fic, please do leave me a comment! They really do make my day, and even the smallest little note will make me smile! Thank you X3


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